


An Encounter In

by Santacita



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff and Crack, Gay Parents, Long, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Protective Parents, Rated for Deadpool's Language, Sassy Peter, Spideypool - Freeform, Superfamily (Marvel), Superhusbands (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santacita/pseuds/Santacita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on December 25; Christmas, quite obviously. </p><p>This is only a prologue for what is to come; but of course, the poor boy is not aware of this small fact (nor is Wade, for that matter). Adventures (and misadventures) ensure for both Spiderman and Peter, and of course Wade always finds a way to stick himself right in there besides the kid.</p><p>{Spideypool, Set in the Superfamily universe}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a Subway

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything. All characters and heroes belong to Stan Lee/Marvel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter meets Deadpool though does not think much aboot it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit i deleted the old notes bc ew i'll make new ones one day promise

The first time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on December 25; Christmas, quite obviously.

* * *

 

The world is covered in a blanket of white, and yet more lint rains down on it. Fluffy, pale lint, gently lowering themselves in clumps onto the surface of the earth, and atop even more clumps. Clumps upon clumps upon clumps, creating layers upon even more layers… there must be at least 6 inches of the stuff out there; no one dares disturb it.

Yet, not here in Los Angeles, California. Here it does not snow. Here it has not snowed for a very long time; the temperature is still 49 degrees Fahrenheit, in the middle of December.

Early Christmas morning, people are either sleeping, making coffee, or opening presents.

Except Peter Stark, of course. Peter Stark wakes up at five on Christmas mornings to go for a run (or what he tells his parents). The boy is only fifteen, and is thus banned from staying out too late. But no one said anything aboot too _early!_

This is Peter’s logic, anyhow.

“Ha _ha!!!_ ” This is he. He, as in Peter, as in the kid in the red-and-blue spandex suit swinging high up over the still-lit streetlights lining the roads of downtown Los Angeles, California. He is nowhere near them; more like up with the cranes and skyscrapers. Peter is flying. He is giddy, and he lives for this feeling, this feeling of freedom.

Peter shoots out another web from his wrist. It snags onto a pole suspended over the city, and the boy swings, holding onto the strand of strong pale material. He flies forward, letting go of his support, soaring over the city before beginning to fall.

 _Merry Christmas!_ he tells himself as he webs himself up over to a shiny office building, landing onto the smooth surface with practiced ease; the boy begins to scramble up vertically. He reaches the top and stands, looking out over the city. _His_ city, he likes to think, though it really isn’t. At all.

“Good morning, LA,” Peter says, yawning and stretching. “Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas.

He wonders if his dads are up yet. Steve, knowing him, probably is, and is now waking up Tony and informing him that their son is gone, yet again. Peter grins under his mask and chuckles.

He should probably be getting home now.

The boy retreats back over to the other side of the building’s roof, where he has left his duffel bag full of his normal clothes. Here, way up here, no one will see him undress. There is this temperature problem, however. Peter groans. This suit doesn’t much protect him from the cold either, but his hype and morning workout has warmed him up a bit. Though, standing here undressing and standing barefoot, naked in the cold isn't very appealing towards him.

Peter swings the bag over his shoulder and begins scaling the building backwards, until he is safely on the ground once again. The boy carefully looks around before speeding onto the sidewalk and down into the subways, from where he’d came. Luckily this early in California on a chilly Christmas morning isn’t a very satisfactory place for people to hang out. A few select people are out (which, really, to a country man, would be a loads, but to Peter, today is a quiet day).

He hurriedly ducks into the first bathroom he sees, praying no one sees him (it’s not like that in itself would be a big deal, it would be the fact of Peter exiting that would be; people would point and say “oh, that’s the boy! He’s the Amazing Spiderman!”). Now inside, Peter checks all the stalls to make sure no one is here (no one is) before ducking into one himself and locking it. He drops his duffel bag onto the floor before stripping off his mask, first, stuffing it in, then moving onto the rest of the suit.

Needless to say, this is always a struggle.

And today because Peter is in a hurry, everything just becomes even more tedious.

“Fucking spandex,” he mutters, irritably, peeling the tight material off of himself. Once its on, he gets used to it, but putting it on and taking it off… ugh. Peter has to repeatedly remind himself why he designed his suit this way; to be streamlined and move around all the easier. Like his Pops. And Aunt Nat. And basically all the superheroes that ever came into existence.

Finally, the boy manages to get his annoying suit off of him, and his less-annoying jeans and t-shirt and sweatshirt over his head (the sweatshirt has his school’s name on it. Peter does not know why he packed this particular one), and steps out of the stall, bag over on shoulder. He moves up to a mirror, washes his hands, and checks to make sure his mask didn’t mess up his face or anything (once it imprinted the web design onto his skin), ruffles his hair (it is the color of dark chocolate), and adjusts his black-rimmed glasses for what must be the fifth time now.

Then, the bathroom door slams open, and for a heart-stopping second, Peter thinks its the police, or, even worse, his parents.

But it isn’t. It is some red-clad dude, wearing a spandex body suit, like Peter’s. Only it is not Peter’s. It is something completely different; like one of a… superhero? But Peter had never seen this guy before. Said guy is very tall, overly muscular, and has two long (dangerous-looking) swords strapped to his back, two large pistols holstered on either thigh, a belt with lots of pouches on it (with a strange circular logo in the center), and two things Peter cannot see clearly strapped to either calf. The guy sees Peter staring, and waves cheerfully.

Peter awkwardly waves back.

The man (Peter assumes he is such) takes his place by a urinal on the other side of the bathroom and drops his lower half of the red suit.

Peter zips up his duffel bag hurriedly and is gathering the courage to leave when yet another person enters the bathroom.

 _Perfect_ , he thinks. _Another superhero, perhaps?_

No, it is a normal man. A black-hooded man with his hands in his pockets. He begins to wash his hands, and Peter swallows. Two people are in his way now, and both are setting off his Spider-sense. Great. The boy takes a step forward, and is promptly grabbed (his arm is, at least). He turns; it is the hooded man; of course.

“Yes?” Peter asks as politely as he can manage.

“Money, kid. Now.” The man briefly flashes an open switchblade, pulling him closer and twisting his arm painfully. Peter bristles and glances at the red-suited man, who appears to not have noticed.

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t have-“

He is shoved against one of the dirty tiled blue walls of the bathroom, and the knife mentioned is pressed up to his neck.

“ _Money, kid_. Now,” the man hisses (almost snarls), quietly. Over his shoulder the superhero man is still pissing. Peter wonders why this guy even bothers to mug him when there’s a very bright witness standing right there. Unless they’re working together. That’s possible too, Peter realizes.

“Dude, really, I don’t have-“

“Oh, don’t you _dude_ me. I’m asking for money. Open your bag.”

Peter stiffens. “I… I can’t… I mean, I-“

“Open it!”

He can just as easily kick this idiot in the nuts, tie him up with a few helpful webs, and bail out of here, leaving him to the janitors. Everyone’ll know it was Spiderman. But so will him, and the unhelpful apparent-superhero. And Peter can’t afford to let that happen. His dads will murder him if his face is seen while executing heroic acts in public bathrooms. There is probably a camera in here, too. Dammit.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. I’m sorry, but I can’t open my bag.”

The man laughs scornfully, and shoves the knife harder onto Peter’s throat. “Why _not_?”

“Please back off, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, but I do.”

 _This guy’s an idiot,_ is Peter’s only recurring thought as he studies the guy’s face, thinking of how easily he could have him bound up on the floor with two broken ribs and a bloody nose.

But of course Peter does not move. He only focuses on keeping his gaze steady, continuously glancing at the peeing man, who is still… peeing. How does he not notice? Perhaps he is deaf.

“I’m gonna say this one more time, kid. _Open. The. Bag._ ”

Needless to say, Peter does not open the bag.

The man spins him around so the boy faces the wall, and pushes him up against it, arms twisted painfully behind his back. The knife is still at his neck. “I could break you, you know. Right now. I could cut you. I don’t care about that fucker behind us, alright? Give me your fucking money.”

Peter winces, and mentally curses at the world.

Well, shit. Now what?

Conflicting emotions pass through his head; strike back or not? Is it really worth getting away with a clean neck and working arms? To reveal is identity? Maybe no one will think much of it (Peter knows this is not true).

The offender pushes on his arms harder. He cringes and bites his lip.

“Who’re you callin’ a fucker?” says a male’s voice from behind. Both Peter and the hooded man freeze. “I mean, sure, fucking is fun and all, but it’s not like I _do_ it all the time. You know, it’s hard to find a woman who’s willing to bang a guy that's horribly disfigured _though_ great in bed. Disappointing, eh?”

There is a pause.

“Back off,” the man growls, still holding onto Peter, who rolls his eyes. Has the superhero actually decided to carry out his superhero-ly duties yet?

“Ha. Why don’t you? Go on, shoo. Let go of the kid, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Get out of here.”

“And leave this poor guy trembling against the wall in your admittedly gross grasp? You’ve gotta be kidding me, guy.”

“I’m actually not.”

The man behind them huffs loudly. “Alright, fine. You asked for it…” He sounds cheerful, which astonishes Peter; whenever he saves poor souls from muggers, he always talks in a slightly deeper voice than his normal one, as to disguise his identity. And to sound badass. Of course.

A thudding noise echoes throughout the bathroom, and the man pinning Peter lets go of him, falling to the floor with a loud thump.

The other man giggles. “He could use a workout.”

Peter grabs his duffel bag off the floor, and spins around. Sure enough, the red-spandex guy is standing there, holding one of his guns in one hand; he has hit the mugger in the back of the head with its hilt.

Even though he is wearing a mask, Peter can tell the guy raises an eyebrow.

“You okay?”

“Um,” the boy very intelligently answers. “Yeah.” He eyes his savior suspiciously. “Who are you?” Peter rummages through his memory, coming up with nothing involving this guy. Really, _who_ is he?

“Oh, yes, you're welcome,” he says. “Your life totally wasn't in danger just now.”

Peter swallows, glancing to the door nervously. “Yeah, uh. Thanks. Sorry. It’s just…”

“Nah.” The man waves his hand, holstering his gun again. “What an asshole, amirite?” He nudges the unconscious body on the floor with one clothed foot. “You’re only in, what, high school?”

Peter cocks his head curiously. Is this what normal superheroes did besides him? Engage in small talk with the people they rescue from trouble? “Um, y-yeah. It’s… yeah. Tenth grade.” Why is he _answering?_ “Who are you?” he tries again.

The man raises an eyebrow again. “I’m sorry, _what?_ You don't know who I am?”

Peter shakes his head slowly.

“Deadpool? Wade Wilson?” Pause. “ _Deadpool?”_

“I-I’m really sorry, but-“

“DEADPOOL? Ring any bells, kid? No?” Another pause. “Invincible? Cat-like agility? Horribly messed up face?” A few moments of silence pass. “Huh. This just got awkward really quickly, hm.”

Peter waits expectantly.

“I’m Canadian,” Wade Wilson/Deadpool explains like this makes perfect sense to why Peter doesn’t know him.

“Ok,” he says, mostly just wanting this conversation to end, perhaps now. “Ok, um, thanks again, but I really should be going…”

“Oh, of course you should, silly me.” Smirk. Peter really wonders why he can see these things through the red-and-black mask Deadpool wears over his head and face. He pushes himself off the wall and awkwardly shuffles around him to the door.

“Thanks. Again.”

“Aw, stop thanking me, kid. It’s my job, after all! Say, you like tacos?”

Peter pushes open the door. “Not especially.”

“Well fuck you too then.”

The boy glances back quizzically before exiting the bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind him with a mumbled “Merry Christmas”.

This is the first encounter, a prologue to the many chapters to come. Peter does not know this, of course, and does not think much of the event. In fact, it is already completely wiped from his mind at the moment because the boy has spotted his parents across the subway platform, staring him down, arms folded, feet tapping.

“Crap,” Peter mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, you made it through the first chapter. I applaud thee, dear friend! Move onto the next, if you'd like. I'd appreciate it greatly. 
> 
> I'm sorry, any Californians out there, if I get anything aboot California wrong. I live in Toronto, which, really, is almost the opposite of that warm American state. It's always so... hot. I'm used to snowy winters, and cool weather all-around, almost. Except in the summer. It's nice in the summer. Anyway, I'm sorry if I get any temperatures wrong. Is 49 degrees Fahrenheit cold for California? I wouldn't know. I'm pretending it is.
> 
> And I know Peter Stark sounds weird, but I like to pretend he was supposed to be named Peter Parker Rogers-Stark, but Tony, when writing it on the birth certificate, casually "forgot" (cough cough) the hyphen. That actually happened to me, hehe; my dad left out that little dash and my dear mother got little angry. 
> 
> And YES I KNOW PETER IS SUPPOSED TO LIVE IN NEW YORK. BUT TONY LIVES IN CALIFORNIA IN MALIBU SO PETER AND STEVE DO TOO DEAL WITH IT. 
> 
> AND YES I KNOW PETER IS OLDER THAN FIFTEEN BUT I WANT HIM TO BE FIFTEEN DEAL WITH IT.
> 
> I'm sorry if you don't want to read this anymore because of my stupidness; please don't leave. I love you, wherever and whoever you are. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Citations: That line where Wade was like, "You know, it’s hard to find a woman who’s willing to bang a guy who’s horribly disfigured though great in bed", is from the Deadpool game. It's one of the lines I heard when playing it.


	2. an Alleyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiderman takes out a few muggers with some (unwanted) help, then gets in trouble with his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone tell me if their relationship is escalating too quickly, because I think it is.

The second time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on February 18; a Wednesday.

* * *

 

It is evening, and the boy has finished all of his homework, like the obedient teenager he is.

“Hey, Pete.” This is one of Peter’s adoptive parents, Steven Rogers. Peter turns from his seat at his desk, turning to look at his father.

“Yeah, Pops?”

“Dad and I are going out. To this movie he really wants to see. You wanna come?” Steve grins hopefully; Peter never really consents to spending time with his parents much anymore, he much prefers running out and using his time for saving people in the city. His dads do not know this, of course.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I, um. Homework, you know? Test tomorrow. Very big.” This is a lie, but since Steve _is_ Captain America he can’t really tell; he believes Peter is his very own little angel child. Tony, not so much. He can see through his son any day. Luckily Tony doesn’t speak to Peter nearly as much as Steve does. “Next time, though, right?”

The disappointment is obvious on the blonde man’s face. “Yeah, right. Next time.”

“Sorry, Pops…” Peter is.

“No, no, it’s fine. I really am glad you’re so focused on school. Keep up the good work, kiddo.” And with that, Steve leaves, shutting the door gently behind him.

Peter waits until he hears the front door slide shut and JARVIS tell his parents goodbye before leaping out of his seat, rushing over to his closet.

_“Young sir,”_ the robot’s British voice says out over the large mansion, sitting on Malibu Point. _“I presume you are going out again?”_

“Yup.” Peter wiggles into his suit after stripping his normal clothes, down to his underwear. “Don’t blab, ok?”

_“Have I been?”_

“No, and I’m really grateful for that, man. You’re the best.”

_“Why do you lie to your parents, Peter?”_

Peter cringes. “I… I don’t know. But… I _like_ helping people. It’s my thing. But, um… they wouldn't let me if they knew, you know?”

_“Of course, young sir.”_

“Thanks, JARVIS. See you later.” Peter doesn't wait for a reply, leaping delicately out his open window into the cool evening breeze. 

* * *

 

“Hand it over, lady.”

“Aw, are you scared? Where’s your big tough boyfriend _now_?”

_“P-please!_ Stop! I’ll do anything!” 

“Give it to me.” 

“Please!” 

“Ah, stop yer whining and hand it over.”

“Please, no… It was a gift-“

“Like we care. Give it here.”

  “No, wait, stop…!” A muffled scream echoes throughout the darkened alley. It is late at night, maybe midnight, and a woman is being mugged by two large ugly-looking men.

Peter watches from atop a building.

After one of them hits her, he decides it is enough, and begins silently climbing down the wall by his fingertips and toes.

“Ah, it’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

“How much do you think it’ll sell for?”

“Gotta be ten grand, at least.”

“Are those real diamonds?” 

“Take it back. Twenty grand.”

“Please… my grandmother gave it to me…”

Peter hits the ground with no sound whatsoever, and cautiously sneaks closer to the two men and the woman, who is sobbing outrightly now. She spots him over one of the man’s shoulders, and he puts a finger to his lips, signifying for her keep quiet. She seems to understand, and turns away, eyes wide.

Peter approaches, and just as he is only a few feet away, extends an arm, pointing his pointer finger and pinkie out; a long strand of web flies from his wrist. His aim his perfect, catching the necklace in one of the goon’s hands directly and flying back to Peter as he jerks his arm back. Both men yelp in surprise.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greets in a voice that is not his. “I believe this is the lady’s?” Peter makes a clucking sound of disapproval through his teeth. “Have your mothers ever told you to respect the opposite gender? It’s a regular rule of life, in my opinion: _don’t hit girls_. It's unmanly.”

“Hey,” one of them says, drawing a gun. “You’re that spider freak from the news!”

“Holy shit,” the other mutters, he too taking out a pistol of his own. Peter promptly takes both of them with two strands of web and tosses them aside.

The woman whimpers behind them, clutching the wall like it holds emotional support through all this.

“Go on, get out of here,” Peter advises, “before you get hurt.” 

“You can’t hurt us, shrimp,” the man with the mustache growls. Peter sighs.

“Try me.”

Mustache man charges; his friend stays behind, backing up so he can grab ahold of the woman and put her in a threatening headlock. Peter waits for the man to get to him and throw a punch before catching his fist and then returning the blow, harder. He kicks him into a wall and pins him there with a trustily sticky spray of webs. Mustache struggles in protest, yelling curses and insults aboot spandex and Peter’s mother (whom he does not have) and spiders.

“Don’t move,” Mustache’s friend snarls, still holding the wailing woman. “Or she dies.”

Peter gages his movements and her eyes. She is scared, terrified, petrified, even. _Please,_ she begs. _Please help me._

Peter still has the necklace in hand, and holds it out to the man.

“Here. You want this? Take it. Just let her go.” This is not the truth, of course. The woman shrieks.

“NO! Please!!”

The man does not look convinced. At all.

“You’re lying.”

“You want the money, don’t you? Just let her go. It’s easy.”

Mustache man grumbles something from the wall about Spiderman’s dick. Peter webs his mouth shut without looking.

“I’ll kill her,” the goon warns again, slower this time, as if observing what the Amazing Spiderman would do in such a situation. The Amazing Spiderman does not do much, and wonders _what_ he should do. “I’ll strangle her.”

The woman chokes.

Then, as swift as anything, her attacker falls to the ground.

She gasps for air, and leans against the wall, panting and sobbing and screaming all at the same time. Covering her face with her hands, she sniffles, “Oh my God” over and over again.

A red-gloved hand pats her head.

Peter’s eyes widen.

“Looked like you needed a little help back there,” says a familiar voice, one that Peter knows but hasn’t heard in a very long while. “Thought I’d step in.”

A figure steps out from the fog, and Peter wanders closer as to see who it might be. He crouches down in front of the woman and pats her as well, handing her the necklace, which, Peter observes, is pure diamond.

“Hey,” he soothes, stroking her back. The man above them continues patting her blonde locks. “Hey, it’s ok. Why were you walking out this late all alone?”

The woman clutches her necklace to her heart, muttering repeated “thank you”s, blinking tears away from her long lashes. “I…” she sobs. “I… I was out with my boyfriend, in a bar… and… and…” Her voice breaks slightly. “… he left, and I thought I could walk home, because my apartment’s right there…” She gestures down the street.

“Dump him,” the familiar voice declares suddenly, making both Peter and the woman look up in surprise. “What kind of guy is he, to leave his girlfriend _alone_ in the middle of the night at a _bar_ in the city?”

She sniffles.

Peter squints. It a bit hard to see, but he’d recognize that suit anywhere.

_“Deadpool?”_ he utters, forgetting his fake voice for a moment, then realizes he has, and quickly clears his throat. “I mean… _Deadpool._ ”

The day Peter had met him, he’d gone online and researched as much aboot Wade Wilson and Deadpool as he could; not much had come up. He found a few pictures on Google Images (all with a suit on, nothing with him revealed), and had learned that the guy is indeed Canadian, is 6’2”, and weighs 210 pounds. Not very useful, but it was something. It had said he’d worked with some group called the X-Men, though nothing with S.H.I.E.L.D or the Avengers, the only two groups Peter himself knows of.

“Deadpool,” Deadpool agrees; Peter can practically hear the grin in his voice as he jabs at the boy’s forehead with one forefinger. _“Spiderman.”_

Peter is very surprised. He clears his throat again and turns back to the woman, who is too caught up in herself to notice the exchange. “So, um, Miss… what’s your name?”

She sniffles. “Charlotte. Charlotte Winchester.”

“Well, Ms Winchester, it’s late, it’s been an exciting night for you… I’ll take you home, how does that sound?”

She shakes her head. “No… I’m fine. I can get home. My apartment’s only across the street.” The woman stands. “A-are you really Spiderman?”

Peter swallows, then nods. “The one and only.”

Charlotte grasps his hand. “Thank you so much.” She turns to Wade, obviously not recognizing him. “You too, sir.” Wade nods, resting his hands behind his head.

“Anytime.”

Peter keeps a close eye on the woman as she crosses the street, watching her until she has entered a building safely and shut the door behind her.

The second this happens, Deadpool explodes.

“Oh my _God!_ ” he cries out, reaching forward, grabbing Peter’s arm, and pumping it up and down excitedly. “You’re him! You’re _the_ Spiderman!”

Peter gulps. He can’t know him from the bathroom. There’s no way. _NO WAY_ , the boy continuously tells himself. “I… am.” Gotta keep that voice in check.

“This. Is so. COOL. Haha!”

“Um. It’s always nice to meet…a fan?”

“Yeah, that must be nice. I don’t have any fans, but it’s fine.” Wade continues his shaking of Peter’s hand, red-on-red, glove-on-glove. Peter stares at them.

“Um… sorry?”

“HA, nah, it’s cool. _Goddammit_ you’re _actually him!_ ”

“I… am,” Peter repeats. “Um… yes.”

“Did I mention I’m a big fan of your work?” Deadpool asks like Peter is a movie star. He moves to the boy’s side and swings an arm around his shoulders, finally letting go of his hand. The much taller man stretches a hand out to the sky. “‘Your Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman’. Ha! So _awesome_! You even get your own _catchphrase_.”

“I don’t actually use it that much… only when-“

“Upupup! Let me enjoy the moment…” Pause as Deadpool inhales. “Ok, now you can ruin it.”

Peter doesn’t much know how to respond to this, so he doesn’t. He instead wonders if his parents’ movie is over yet. They don’t usually check on Peter in his bedroom, but, just in case, he’d stuffed some pillows under his blanket just to make it _look_ like he was sleeping peacefully. It isn't like his dads don’t _know_ aboot his powers and suit and such; they do. They appreciate his work. Just not at night. Or this early in the morning, rather, for this certain case.

Then, as if to answer Peter’s wondering, his phone promptly rings from a very tight pocket in his suit. He cringes, Wade looks down.

“That yours or mine?”

“Mine,” Peter mumbles, drawing it out and observing the screen with growing dread, angling the screen away from Deadpool. Sure enough, it reads _Dad_. Of course. The boy swallows and presses the green answer button, holding the phone up to his ear. Wade watches him; Peter moves away.

“Hello?”

He has asked his fathers aboot Deadpool as well; both knew him from when he’d worked with S.H.I.E.L.D ages ago, apparently, but had been kicked out by Fury for his "exceptionally bad behavior". Neither like the guy very much, especially Tony. He seems to loathe him.

_“Peter?!”_

Peter sighs. “Um, yeah.” 

_“What exactly do you think you’re doing? Steve and I are worried sick, Mr. Stark.”_ Tony is that parent who calls him and his spouse by their first names, and commands Peter to as well, though his son never really complies. Dad and Pops suit much better.

“Um. Sorry?” 

“Who is it?” Wade whispers overly loudly, leaning in to hear. Peter leans away, waving at him.

_“Oh, you’d better be. Steve says you're grounded. Again. How many times has this happened so far this month, Pete?”_

“Um,” he mumbles again. “A lot?”

_“Oh, you betcha.”_

“Sorry.”

_“As you said last time. And the time before that. Where are you? We’ll come get you.”_

“Nonono, Dad, it’s fine,” Peter says hurriedly, because he does not want to reveal that he is 32 miles from Malibu Point, in the city of Los Angeles, fighting crime. “I’ll get a cab. Or take the subway. Or something. Don’t bother. I’m fine. Really. Dad.” He practically whispers the “Dad” parts so Wade Wilson will not know he actually still _has_ one that he lives with.

Tony is not convinced. _“Where the_ hell _are you, Peter?”_

“Um. Nowhere?”

_“Peter…”_

“I… I’m fine! I-“

Just then, Wade snatches the phone from him and says into the speaker before Peter can protest, “Why, hello, Spiderman’s manager slash corporate boss! May I just start by stating that I _love_ your-“

“Wade!” This comes out of Peter’s mouth before he can help it, because it feels awkward to call him “Deadpool”, and he grabs the phone back, paling. “Hi! Dad! It’s me!”

“‘Dad’?” Deadpool questions skeptically, and Peter cringes.

_“PETER? Who the hell was that? What’s up with your voice?! Are you fucking sick or something? Who’s WADE?”_

“NO ONE,” Peter states very firmly, inwardly panicking and curling up into a small ball and dying. “Just some random drunk guy-“ 

_“Why the hell are you hanging out with random drunk guys?!”_

_Oops_.

“Uh, wait, no, I-“

_“You tell me exactly where you are, young man, or God so help me I’ll…”_

Peter spots Wade watching him amusedly and facepalms.

“Skid Row,” he mumbles guiltily, “downtown Los Angeles.”

There is a slight pause. _“Peter,”_ Tony states. _“Pray tell, my_ dear son, _why in the motherfucking_ _world are you in Skid Row? And at this ungodly hour, too?”_

Peter swallows. “Um.”

_“Stay right where you are. I’m coming to get you.”_ He pauses _. “Wait a second. Did that guy from before just call you_ Spiderman?!”

Peter bites his lip and hangs up, not picking up when Tony calls again. He groans, and covers his face with two hands.

Wade is still here.

“This is priceless,” he snickers, and Peter notices that the man is holding a phone up, recording. “Spiderman gets in trouble with his _dad_.” He hoots. “I can see the headlines now.”

Peter growls under his breath and webs the phone into his hands, ending the recording and promptly deleting it before Deadpool can protest. Then he smashes the phone onto the ground and grinds it into the concrete with his heel. Angrier than he really should be (maybe it is him, maybe it is Wade, maybe it is Charlotte, maybe it is Tony), Peter thrusts a finger in Wade’s face and practically snarls, “If you mention a _word_ of this to anyone…”

“Dude!” Wade sighs. “That thing cost money, you know. Money I don’t have.”

Peter glances down at the phone, guiltily. He sighs loudly, after a pause.

“Wait here.” 

Clambering up the wall of the building besides them, he meets up with his trusty duffel bag stashed away up here, always, for emergencies. Yeah, Peter spends a lot of time in this sketchy part of the city. He pulls out a large wad of cash (Tony is extremely rich, a lot richer than basically anyone in this country), and hurriedly lowers himself down by web from the top of the building to where Wade obediently stands (“I _love_ how you do that!”). He offers the money.

“Here. I’m sorry. I… I’m just… keep quiet, alright?”

Deadpool takes the slips of green paper, counting it and smirking (how does this work, emotions through that mask?), then looking back up at Peter. “That’s not your real voice.”

For a second Peter’s blood chills, thinking Wade’ll make some comment aboot it sounding like the kid from the subway bathroom, but, thankfully, he doesn’t. Instead, he says something much worse:

“You sound like a little girl having sex for the first time.”

Peter is glad people cannot see emotions through _his_ mask, because he is blushing furiously. Somehow, he feels that Wade can tell.

“Spiderman’s not all we make him out to be, eh?” Deadpool teases, punching Peter roughly in the shoulder and handing back the money. “Take this back. I don’t need it; Logan’ll pay up when the time comes.”

Peter does not know who Logan is and does not wait to find out. He snatches the cash back and stuffs it in his pocket, glaring. “Oh, good. That’s good. Nice meeting you, Mr… Deadpool.”

And with that, the boy shoots a web up onto a streetlight and retreats, higher and higher, farther and farther from stupid, annoying Wade Wilson.

It goes without saying that Peter is grounded for a month.

The next time he sees Deadpool is probably one of the most unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure Skid Row is bad, right? That's what Google said, anyway. 
> 
> I can't find any borrowed lines in this chapter, so if you find some, please notify me of them.


	3. a School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ninjas invade Peter's school; a certain someone shows up to slice them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize to both my social studies teacher and some kid in my class for using their last names in this chapter. Thanks, and I really hope either of you don't read this.

The third time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on March 13; aboot three weeks after the last meet-up.

* * *

 

It is around noon or so, maybe later. Maybe it is one in the afternoon, maybe two, though no more than that. It is one forty-two, seventh period on a Friday.

Really, every student in Peter’s social studies classroom wants to go home. They want to go home _now_ , with a strong, burning passion. The passion is so strong and burning that the entire school is set aflame, in Peter’s mind. He can _feel_ the restlessness and agitation of his classmates.

Or, perhaps, it is not his classmates. Maybe it is just Peter _himself_ , as this period he has a test, one that he did not study for.

It is his fault, and he knows it. He _should_ _not_ have been climbing his house and seeing how far he could jump (from streetlight to streetlight) all night; he is still grounded, and this would have been a simply perfect opportunity to study.

Especially when Peter has _no fucking clue_ what the hell the Marshall Plan did. He knows it and  the Truman Doctrine go hand-in-hand… but _why? How? Why does he have to know these things?_

 

It isn’t like one day during a job interview the wealthy business man in the sharp gray suit will ask, “So, Mr. Stark, I’ve seen your social studies grades from Grade Ten. Tell me, Mr. Stark, _what was the policy of containment and how did the United States fight to keep their nation as such?”_

A nameplate reading _DiGangi_ will rest upon his desk, and he will smirk, fingering it as Peter blushes and fumbles over his words, because he _does not know._

Why does this all seem so unlikely and silly? _Because it is._

It is the most unlikely and silly thing Peter has ever thought of.

“You’ve got aboot fifteen minutes left,” Mr Krautheimer announces, looking up from his paperwork (or the tests of kids who’ve already finished).

This is not good, considering Peter is only on question ten out of thirty-five.

One hand is in Peter’s hair, and he grips it furiously. The kid next to him is almost finished, and the boy casts a glance towards his paper. He hardly ever cheats. He hardly ever cheats because he usually studies. But today… today is an exception.

Question 32 reads _Explain Roosevelt’s Big Stick policy and why Roosevelt chose to initiate it._

Peter has no idea, and he is nowhere near that question yet.

Crap.

He looks up and stretches, sighing under his breath. Mr Krautheimer gives him a funny look and gestures for him to get back to the test. Peter nods, sheepishly.

_Sorry, Mr Krauth. I bombed this._

Mr Krautheimer _likes_ Peter. Genuinely _likes_ him. He _wants_ Peter to succeed, but lately the boy’s grades, not only in this class, but everywhere else, have been dropping, and why? Skid Row. Crime. Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman.

This reminds Peter of Deadpool. He hasn’t seen the guy recently (thankfully) and really hopes he has moved back to Canada already. He gets in the way of Peter. Really. And now he knows Spiderman has a dad; who’s to say the guy hasn’t blabbed already?!

“Ten minutes. You should be finishing up, guys.”

Peter shudders. He catches the eye of his girlfriend Gwen Stacy across the room; she flashes him a reassuring smile. That’s what Peter loves aboot her. She can _tell_ when he’s having trouble. Such as now.

“Number eleven is one hundred.”

Peter jumps, and looks in the direction of the voice. It has come from out the window; Peter sits besides a permanently-open one (in the spring and summer, it’s nice. In the winter, not so much). He does not see anyone, but glances down at Number Eleven.

One hundred is not one of the answers.

“This is a _social studies_ test,” he hisses to no one.

“Oh. Is it? Ha.” The voice is hushed, quiet. Peter cannot see who’s talking. “Then is it Mississippi?”

Peter bites his lip. “Uh, no.”

“Dammit. Ok, gimme one second…”

Peter waits, and really hopes this guy knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t much care that it’s an unknown voice from an unknown location; he just wants _the_ _test done._

“World War II?”

“Maybe?” 

“Ok, choose that one then.”

“Shut up! You’re going to get me in trou-“

“Peter?”

Peter winces. “Um. Yeah? Hi!”

“You were talking,” Mr Krautheimer states; a few kids turn to stare. “May I inquire _who_ you were talking _to_?” 

Peter swallows loudly. He can feel the gazes of his classmates bore into his very soul, digging around, discovering well-kept secrets and _secret identities_ that Peter should never reveal. Ever.

“Myself,” he tries; Krautheimer is not convinced. But, as stated before, he _likes_ Peter, and sees no one, really, for the boy to be talking to. The kid sitting next to him is finished, and no one is seated _in front_ of Peter.

“I hear or see you talking again you’re getting a zero.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Everyone goes back to their business. Peter sees Gwen raising her eyebrows at him and cringes at her, shrugging and gesturing to his very incomplete test. She very obviously sighs, then turns away and adjusts her headband (it is green today), matching her admittedly adorable turtleneck sweater.

“You busted yet?”

Peter swallows, and casts a casual glance out the window. No one in sight. The voice is familiar, though since it is hushed and whispered the boy cannot really make it out.

“No. Keep it down, though.”

“Alright. Say, tell me, kid. What’s the Bay of Pigs Invasion? Ha! Pigs.” 

Peter pauses. He knows this, _he knows this, he knows-_

“Ah, crap! Sorry. Gotta fly. Good luck.”

“Wait, where are-“

“Mr. Stark!”

“Uh?”

“Don’t you _uh_ me. You were talking. _Again_.”

“To myself!”

“West, were you talking to him?”

“No.” 

“Rodriguez?”

“No, sir.”

Peter closes his eyes briefly and circles random answers down the page: _a, c, d, c, c, b, a, a, b,_ _c, b, a._ Next page: _d, a, b, b, b, c, a, d, d, b, World War II, Adolf Hitler, The Russians were communists…_

Steve, once, when Peter was a very small child, had sat his son down on the couch very purposefully and given him lecture. Now, this is not so strange; all parents lecture their children. It was this certain lecture that was so strange; apparently it was something Steve had learned and had drilled into him during the war (Peter still thinks it very strange, one of his fathers participating in World War II, the very subject he is struggling with at the moment). According to one of Steve’s generals, being taken by surprise is _unforgivable_ ; one must always, _always_ be on their toes (in a “yellow” stage of awareness, as said by Peter’s very patriotic father), looking out. Apparently, if one is taken by surprise, no one, not your friends, not your parents, not your dog, not the worms in the ground, no one will forgive you for it. Peter remembers this certain lecture scaring him intensely as a child, and from then on vowed never to be surprised ever again in his life. It isn’t really very hard; part of Peter’s whole Spiderman package is the ability of totally awesome reflexes… it’s hard to sneak up on the kid, so to speak. Very hard.

Though, when one of the vents in the ceiling breaks and bodies come tumbling out, Peter (and all of his classmates) are surprised.

Very surprised.

_Sorry, Pops_ , Peter thinks. He cannot tell if this distraction is good or not. It has taken attention off the test-taking and the talking-Peter situation, but, still, it’s _bodies_. That just fell out of a _vent_.

Spidey-sense is going wild.

At first, everyone thinks the bodies dead, until a second later when they rise. It is four of them, three in black and one in red.

Peter recognizes the red one instantly.

_“Whaddahell,”_ he blurts. No one argues.

“Hey, whoa now,” Mr Krautheimer says loudly, waving at the four intruders (two of the black-clothed ones are male, one is female). “Whoa. Where’d y’all _come_ from?”

“Hey!” the red one (guess who) cheers, waving delightedly at Peter. “You’re that kid from the bathroom!” 

Peter opens his mouth and closes it as everyone swings around to stare at him.

“I… hi?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. _Shit._

One of the ninja-looking figures uses this distraction to his advantage and swings up a leg to kick Deadpool in the head; the man ducks, making an impressed _oh ho ho_ sound. He retaliates with a few punches, lashing out at the other two who attempt to help their friend. A dramatic movie-scene-like fight breaks out, and, needless to state, no one in the classroom (who’s supposed to be there) moves. They all watch, wordlessly, some of the boys making WHOA noises and some of the girls shrieking.

Peter is one of the silent ones, along with Gwen.

“No no no, why is this _happening_ ,” he mutters to himself, putting to hands behind his head in utter distress. Why _is_ this happening? What the hell _is_ this?! 

CRIME IS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN IN SCHOOL.

DEADPOOL IS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN IN SCHOOL.

The darkly-dressed attackers have now drawn out guns; the class is a bit freaked by now. Mr Krautheimer rushes over to a rescue window (the one by Peter) and begins to sturdy it frantically. Peter moves out of the way, and his test flutters to the floor. No one notices.

The female pulls the trigger.

It hits Wade Wilson square in the shoulder.

Wade Wilson glances at it, almost amusedly.

“Oh, come on, you’ll have to do better than _that_ ,” he snickers, pulling out two very long katanas of his own and branishing them threateningly. “Too bad Mr. Newton didn’t inform you of my pure awesomeness, eh?”

“Holy fuck,” says West, the boy next to Peter, as he practically falls out of his chair.

Peter only stares, shocked, and wonders.

He wonders who _this is_. Who _is_ Deadpool?! Who is _Deadpool? Wade Wilson? Who?_

Mr Krautheimer looks just aboot ready to faint, but manages enough energy to very obviously gesture to the rescue window; only some students notice. Only some actually make moves to _get_ to the window.

Peter moves for his exiting classmates. He wants to go last, because he really doesn’t _need_ to get out, or be rescued, for that matter. Peter himself can take out these guys a lot quicker than Deadpool’s doing, but doesn’t give an example. Duh. That would be stupid.

Wade sort of helps, pointing at the window with his sword whenever he can, to the kids who are still staring at him. Only a few move.

This Peter cannot take. He stands, and runs quickly over to the other side of the room, pushing many of his peers out of their chairs and hissing at them to _get out._ This includes Gwen.

She is very offended.

“Don’t _push_ me,” she snaps at him, softly, but gets up to move. He ignores her, and dodges a leg that comes flying his way. Wade takes this leg and slams it into one of its buddies.

“Hey now, don’t you be going around kicking the children,” he scolds, and Peter bristles.

_You’re doing a horrible job, dude. No wonder no one knows who you are._

He notices that Deadpool isn’t really _using_ his swords; just sort of waving them around and using the hilts to deflect hits that come his way. It’s funny, Peter thinks… why doesn’t he just slice them and get it over with? He’s already had so many opportunities.

The boy turns to go, Gwen under his arm, and then one of the men puts an arm up, as if to strike her upside the head.

“HEY!” is Peter’s loud response, and, using the reflexes mentioned, he turns, grabbing the guy’s said limb, pushing it aside, and punching him in the face.This sudden action causes the boy’s glasses to tumble pathetically off his nose; Gwen hurriedly picks them up and hands them back, an astonished, honored expression clouding her very pretty features.

“Oh my God,” she says simply. Peter does not retaliate, and instead resumes dragging her over to the open window. The class has evacuated by now, and Peter can see police cars and other authorities out on the street. Sirens screech, and someone pounds on the door.

“Well shit,” Peter hears Wade announce in a very matter-of-factly sort of tone, and calls, “Door’s open!”  

Gwen retreats out the window, with Peter’s encouragement, and he turns.

Deadpool decapitates two of the black-clothed men, then stabs the woman in the neck, impaling her to the hilt; he kicks her off the sword directly afterwards.

Peter yelps.

A head rolls over by his feet.

“Hey, kid. You weren’t supposed to see that!”

“I-“ Peter begins.

The door bursts open, and a large squad of police officers charges in. Deadpool takes one look at them, curses loudly, and practically leaps across the room to where Peter (and the window) are, pushing past the boy.

“Your shoulder-“

“Eh, it’ll heal.” His right shoulder seems to have an extremely disturbing amount of meat taken out of it, some of the flesh hanging out of the large hole. Peter finds himself staring at it for the duration that he can actually see it; Wade is out the window, pushing through the crowd of the students now on the roof. Peter casts a final glance at the bloody classroom, stomach flipping over (not out of disgust, something more of excitement (though he is still very disgusted)), before climbing out the window with his peers. Deadpool  _killed_ them. He actually  _killed_ those people.

Peter's hand has blood on it.

“Hey! You!” a police officer barks, rushing over to where Deadpool has exited. The man called glances backwards, salutes, and falls off the building.

Everyone screams. A few kids rush to the edge, only to be dragged back by Mr Krautheimer’s very flustered self.

Peter notes that this classroom is on the top floor; four very tall stories up. One might survive if they jumped properly, but… no one could get out of it without injury…

The boy runs to the side of the building, he himself unafraid of heights, and peeks over.

No one is there.

“Wha…?” he mutters quietly, mostly to himself. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and someone tugs him back.

“Stay away from the edge,” says Krautheimer. A cop speaks mumbled words into a walkie-talkie, calling for backup and cleanup and whatever else.

“There’s blood,” Peter overhears him say. “A lot of it.”

“Stay away from the windows,” another orders students who are trying to see inside the building.

Gwen is hugging onto Peter’s arm; he strokes her back reassuringly, though his mind isn’t exactly on _her_. It’s on _Deadpool_.

Peter _needs_ to find out who he is.

And he will; tonight.

“A perfect Friday the 13th _this_ is, huh,” grumbles an officer to his friend, who grunts in response. Peter agrees wholeheartedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wade says "eh" way too much. Please excuse him; that's probably just me and my "eh"s feeling natural in sentences invading his own. I'm sorry, Wade. 
> 
> I keep trying to write Peter's last name as "Parker" then realizing it's not Parker. Heh, sorry, Pete.
> 
> And also, a little note. Gwen doesn't know that Peter's Spiderman. He hasn't told her. Just for clarification. I don't want her to know lol.
> 
> THANK YOU PEOPLE WHO LEFT COMMENTS I LOVE YOU SO MUCH REALLY


	4. the Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiderman stalks Deadpool and a very childish argument ensures.

The fourth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is still on March 13th, no, March 14th, in the early hours of the morning.

* * *

 

The early, _early_ hours of the morning.

One in the morning, say. One or two in the morning. Twelve hours since the last Deadpool sighting.

Now, Peter has thought this over. He is certain that Wade is still in Los Angeles, as he seems to spend all last three times Peter has seen him here (Peter attends school in the city). Perhaps, however, since the police are _looking_ for him, he has fled the city, maybe the state completely, and retreated back to Canada. Such a thing is possible, Peter tells himself.

He hopes it is not. He wants to _study_ this Deadpool guy. This _Deadpool guy_ is intriguing. Who is he? Is he some government spy? A newly-born superhero? Who? Maybe he is well-known in Canada, as he seemed surprised that Peter did not know of his existence.

The thing that had happened at school is all over the news now; a few students had even recorded it. Peter watches the whole scene on YouTube, kind of really wanting to explode in frustration. THIS GUY IS NOT PROFESSIONAL. NOT PROFESSIONAL AT ALL.

Newly-born superhero, then? Perhaps.

Peter waits for his dads to get to bed before sneaking out today. JARVIS does not let out a peep; the fact that he never does is slightly suspicious to Peter. Certainly he would've told Tony by now…? Maybe he has, and the man’s just keeping quiet. Peter knows he wouldn’t, though. His parents strongly disapprove of this whole Spiderman business…

Peter catches a late-night train to Los Angeles, hitching a ride _atop_ one of the cars. Even though there is really no one in the car, the boy is not willing to risk the cameras. Wind whips past Peter’s face, his mask protecting his eyes and nose and mouth and skin. Fingers and feet clutch onto the metal surface of the train, perfectly happy and stable.

Though, when the train pulls to a sudden stop at a station, Spiderman nearly goes toppling onto his face from the sturdiness of his fingertips.

He quickly readies himself.

“No one saw that,” he murmurs, knowing no one has, choosing to lie down this time to avoid further embarrassment when the thing starts moving again.

Fifteen minutes later Peter is in Los Angeles, webbing off the train onto the station building and perching on the roof, looking out over this certain part of the city. Nothing seems out of order, so the boy moves on, swinging from building to building, parkouring over other things on the buildings, waiting for anything that might set off his-

“Wait what?” Peter utters without consent, smashing face-first into an office building (the glass surface is very hard), hurriedly regains his dignity for the second time tonight, then casting a glance back down to what he _thinks_ he saw…

And, sure enough, there’s the bastard.

Strolling around and seemingly _whistling_ (though Peter cannot really tell from this height) as if nothing is wrong, as if the police are _not_ after him (which they totally and completely are).

Peter practically retches in disgust.

He scales down the building, making sure the guy doesn’t catch sight of him, and waits. He waits until Deadpool has rounded the corner before following, staying higher up and in the shadows.

 _I’ll just follow him for a little bit longer,_ Peter tells himself. _Just to see where he goes._

And he does. He follows him for a few more blocks, listening to Wade cheerfully whistle the tune of some song Peter does not know (though he has heard it on TV before) and simply waiting until the idiot _does_ something.

Nope. Nothing.

For ten grueling minutes.

In the duration of these ten grueling minutes, Peter’s alertness and awareness _of_ Deadpool lessens; he drops from the building and now _walks_ behind Wade Wilson instead, still hidden, still many steps behind, still silent, but on the ground.

 _If I had a gun,_ the boy thinks, _and I wanted to assassinate you, you’d be dead. Your brain would be all over that trash can._

The wild (not really) goose chase continues, for many more LONG AND GRUELING MINUTES.

Peter is on the verge of giving up, really.

Then, suddenly (without warning), Deadpool draws both of his large and intimidating guns from his thigh-holsters and swings around faster than Peter can react, pointing them directly at the boy’s chest with an exasperated “Alright alright who’s there.”

Peter freezes.

There is a short pause as Wade squints in the dark as to make out who this figure is that has been following him for the past twenty minutes.

He takes a step closer; Peter takes one silent one back.

“Speak up, or I blow your fucking brains out.”

There is a heart-stopping second in which Peter’s mind trips over itself and falls on its ass.

Luckily, Wade seems to sense this, because he leans forward with a delighted “ _Spidey_ , my _guy!”_  

Peter does not even have time to process this new nickname because Deadpool has holstered his guns again and has leaped over to the red-and-blue-clothed figure.

“Oh, Spidey, you sly dog, you!”

“Uh,” Peter says.

“Haha! How long’ve you been _following_ me!” Wade squeals like a little girl. “Ah, the thought of it! Me, lonely little Deadpool, being _stalked_ by the big shots! Spiderman stalking _me!”_ He swoons. “Oh, isn’t it just a dream come true!”

Then he hugs Peter like they’re best friends who haven’t seen each other in years, perhaps more.

Peter, needless to say, stiffens.

“Yeah. Hi. It’s me.” He makes sure to say this in his deepest possible voice. “I wasn’t stalking you.”

“Sure, sure,” Wade says with a scoff, and Peter can hear the grin. He pushes off of the much taller man. “You know you secretly admire me. Heh, did you see me on the news today? _Pure_ genius. That exposure, amirite?”

“No,” Peter says. “You’re not right.”

“Aw, cheer up, guy! You wish you could go around slaying ninjas like me. You’d get famous too.” 

“I _am_ famous.” 

“Wow, very humble, I see. I like that.” Deadpool puts an arm around Peter’s shoulders and begins leading him away, down the street. The boy decides it might be wise to follow. “You see the videos? Viral, man, _viral_.”

“Good job,” Peter manages through gritted teeth.

“Thanks. Say, Spidey… can I call you Spidey?”

“No.”

“Alright. Say, Spidey, why don’t I ever see you on the news? Like, not in the newspapers. On TV. On YouTube. Instagram. Facebook. Snapchat?”

Peter yanks himself away from Wade. “I don’t _use_ social media.”

“Yeah, yeah, I _know_. I’m just saying, _everyone_ _else_ does. Why don’t I ever see _you?”_

“Because I don't get sighted.” 

“Yeah you do.”

“By reporters, sure. Not by kids. In a school.”

“So you did read it!”

“No. I-“ Peter stops himself. No, he _didn’t_ see it. He couldn’t have. “I… I watched it.”

“TV or YouTube?”

“TV.”

_“Really?”_

“Why would I lie?”

“Eh. I dunno.”

“Exactly.” Deadpool gives Peter a look, and changes the subject. “You have a secret identity?”

“Who doesn’t?” 

“Me.” 

“Well, yeah. You go around spewing your name to random strangers.”

Wade stops walking; Peter takes a few steps ahead. He glances backwards, not realizing his mistake.

  “I never gave you my name,” the man snickers. “You already _knew_ who I was, that time we met. Honestly, I was fuckin’ _surprised_. Literally no one knows who the hell the dude in the red spandex is.”

Peter swallows. Oh yeah. Only _Peter_ got Deadpool’s real name. Or at least what Deadpool _says_ is his real name.

“Oh,” he says simply, then, as to not seem suspicious, “What _is_ your name?”

Deadpool puffs out his chest proudly and Peter resists an eyeroll, even though he knows that the man won’t actually see. “Wilson. Wade Wilson. Pleased to make your acquaintance…” He holds out his hand, obviously waiting for Peter’s name as well.

Peter does not give it or his hand.

“Cool. Um. Yeah.”

Wade withdraws his hand, and leans his head back irritably. “You’re such a _drag_ , dude.”

The boy bristles; _what?_ Him, a drag. Yeah, right.

“Speak for yourself, buddy,” he retorts without thinking. Deadpool snorts, and eyes him skeptically.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, you.”

“What grade are you in, fourth?”

“I’m not _in_ school.”

“Neither am I!”

“I could’ve guessed. You sound like an old man anyway.” Peter does not actually _think_ this, but he kind of just wants to be mean. He does not know why, but he does. He _does_. Wade Wilson is an _idiot_.

“And, again, you: a little girl.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

  There is a short silence as the two sort of stand around and glare at each other.

Peter, in the quietness of the night, has a short spurt of memory; the temperature and atmosphere of the two events (this and that) are similar interests… In this certain short spurt, he is yanking a phone out of Deadpool’s hands and barking “WADE” loudly, then putting the thing back up to his ear. When was this? This was the last time the two met, is it not? Only, what… a few weeks ago? Spiderman had not known his name. _Peter_ had known his name.

Deadpool says something unintelligible.

 _“What?”_ Peter demands, feeling hands begin to prickle with the unpleasant sensation of cold sweat. Nervous sweat. Sweat that is guilty, because Wade _had not noticed Spiderman’s slipup._ _He had not noticed, not shouted “HEY HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME”, not pointed it out._

Why had he not pointed it out?

 _Had_ he pointed it out? 

Had he not noticed?  

Peter assumes the latter; nay, _prays_ for the latter. If it is not the latter, then he is screwed.

“I _said, ‘Get the hell home’.”_

Peter does not answer.

“Your daddy’s probably worrying.”

Peter still does not answer. He is too preoccupied with resisting the urge to strangle Deadpool then mercilessly tie him up to a pole and stab him with his own swords in the ballsack.

“Haha. Very funny.”

  “I try.”

“Shut up.”

“Aw, getting defensive, are we now?” “Speak for yourself,” Peter has said this already, and he knows it sounds stupid. And, still, he says it anyway. He says it _anyway_. He is an _idiot_ , just as much as Wade.

“Is that all you have to say?” The man folds his arms, hands clenching into indignant fists. “I mean, really. Try harder. _Can_ you?”

Peter is not a very witty kid in general, so he really has nothing to speak back with. He manages a very embarrassing stuttering syllable.

Deadpool laughs, and a spray of unbearably sticky web is promptly spewed all over his masked face.

“You’re a _fucking moron,_ ” Peter snaps, angrily, since he can’t think of anything else. “No wonder no one knows who you are.”

Wade paws at the webs. “Watch the face, dude.”

“No,” is all the boy has to say, and he turns, beginning to march away.

He trips on a foot, falls flat on his face, catches himself with his hands at the last second, and yelps.

There is a flash of light, and Deadpool is gone (at least, from Peter’s view).

Pride injured and hands scraped, the boy pushes himself off the hard concrete and gets to his feet, practically shuddering in embarrassment and anger both…

 _You’re dead, Wade Wilson,_ is his only recurring thought, if not an unnecessarily violent one. _You’re fucking_ dead.

He takes one final look around the area before ferociously kicking an empty Pepsi can across the street, also-ferociously relishing the pained clanking noises it makes on the way over.

Quite obviously, Deadpool does not die the next time he and Peter meet, because there are many more chapters and this is a Spideypool story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure Deadpool can teleport. He has that thing on his belt, right? Writing future chapters of this, I've noticed I don't actually use it much. Please excuse that. 
> 
> Criticism is much appreciated :D


	5. a Taco Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's date with Gwen goes sour the second they step into Fresh Mexican Cuisine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want a chimichanga right now. A nice grilled chicken one... Sigh. If only Wade could hook me up.
> 
> Also I have no idea if Gwen likes to shop or not but Imma pretend she does.

The fifth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on March 22, hardly a week after the last.

* * *

 

The _timing_ is incredibly unfair, he will think afterwards.

Today is a Sunday, and a very pleasant one at that; clouds are out, and yet make room for the sun, so the sky is that aesthetically-pleasing mixture of blue and white and pale yellow. Peter likes this type of weather, and he knows Gwen does too.

He does not keep Deadpool in mind whatsoever as he calls up his girlfriend and says, without even a hello, “Do you want Mexican?”

Gwen chuckles, kindly, and sighs. “Oh, yes, hello to you too, Peter. Nice weather we’re having.”

“Yeah, you think? It’s… nice. Very nice. Mexican?” 

“Yes, Peter, I like Mexican.” The girl says this in a teasing, playful sort of tone. “When?”

“Now. We’ll go out to the city, do some… shopping?”

The surprise Gwen’s voice is almost comical: “You _hate_ shopping.”

  “I know, but… I… you _love_ shopping, and I don’t hate _you_.”  

Peter does not know why he is being so generous today (he usually just goes shopping anyway because he’s a pushover like that), but…

“Aw, you fucking cutie.” Gwen does not usually swear, so Peter assumes that this is a special sort of compliment. He is not just a “cutie” anymore, he is a _“fucking cutie”_.

Maybe she is implying that she wants him to fuck her.

Peter blushes at the thought of it and hurriedly shoves the suggestion from his mind. Yes, he is still a virgin. No, he does not plan to change that anytime soon.

“Uh, thanks?”

“Oh my God, Peter.”

“What?”

“You just…” Gwen smiles on the other side of the phone. “Come pick me up, you big ball of fluff.” Then she hangs up.

Peter sort of stands there for a few more seconds watching his wall with a big dorky grin on his face.

Oh, how he loves her.

Downstairs, Peter almost makes the mistake of calling out a friendly hello. This is immediately stifled because (of course) his parents are busy on the couch. As they always are, it seems.

The boy sneaks into the kitchen, takes a bite of toast lying out on the counter, slings his backpack over his shoulders and camera around his neck, and hugs the floor as he crawls past the loudly thumping piece of furniture.

_Nothing wrong with a bit of morning fun, huh,_ he thinks. _Goddammit, dads. It’s only fucking eleven._

Peter eventually makes it outside and departs down the long, winding driveway of Malibu Point, leaving the unnecessarily large mansion behind him. It was Steve’s job to make sure his son didn’t grow up a rich brat (“like you,” he’d said to Tony), and Peter is grateful for his efforts. His friend Harry’s family was an enormously rich one, and the guy acted as such. Harry once commented that Peter both acts and dresses like a peasant (affectionately, of course, because they are still good friends), but Peter isn’t going to go around dressing like he has a job interview every day and acting like someone’s constantly got a stick stuck up his ass (no offense, Harry).

Gwen’s house isn’t all that far away (they both live on the coast), and so Peter walks. It’s nice out anyway, with the cool ocean breeze and the squawk of seagulls above… He looks out over the cliff of the point behind him as he retreats, and decides that one day he will take Gwen out there and help her climb down it. That will be the day, Peter decides, that he will reveal himself to her as he helps her steady herself with his wall-scaling techniques, and catching her with webs if she happens (Peter will make sure it won’t) to fall.

The boy knows this is rash, but young love is a powerful thing.

He takes his time, even though Gwen is never one of those girls to spend an hour or more getting ready; she just _is_. In her own flawless, carefree way.

When Peter reaches her quaint little house by the beach, she is already standing there, out on her porch, waiting. She spots him and trots forward.

“Taking our time, are we?” she asks, leaning up to give him gentle peck on the cheek.

“It’s nice out,” Peter mumbles, and Gwen beams, taking his arm.

“Train?”

“Uh, yeah.”

The two depart, both turning to wave goodbye to Gwen’s parents, who watch carefully from the window. Peter is trustworthy, they think. Peter _is_ trustworthy, Gwen knows. If only her parents would understand this.

The two have a pleasant train ride out to the city, talking aboot nothing really; mostly just school and things on TV and the weather and whatever else.

“Have they caught that guy from before, do you know?” Gwen asks at one point.

Peter looks up sharply from his camera, which he is fiddling with. “What?”

“The guy. Don’t you remember? It was only a week ago.”

  “What guy?”

“Social studies. Damn it, Peter, you were _there.”_

Oh. Of course. Of course she’d pick this certain topic.

“Oh, um. I dunno.”

“Aren’t you a big news guy?”

“Well, uh… not on this, no. I don’t think it’s…” He fumbles over his words. “I don’t really care much…”

  “Oh,” Gwen says, disappoint lining her tone. “Well, that’s fine. I read somewhere that the police actually gave _up_.”

Peter swallows. “Did they?” Then, to make it look like he’s interested, “Why?”

She shrugs. “There weren't any details. It just said they… did.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There is an awkward silence that Peter does not much acknowledge because he’s busy wondering over Deadpool. He _decapitated_ three people, for Christ’s sake. Surely he can’t be getting off _that_ easily…

Peter is a little angry, to be honest. Mostly over the admittedly stupid argument Spiderman and the guy had had that night… when was that? It seemed like ages ago; maybe it was. In any case, it was stupid. Peter can’t even remember how it _started_.

“Are you ok?”

“Huh?” He glances up, and is caught by Gwen’s concerned gaze.

“You seem… off. Distant. Is everything ok?”

“Oh! Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. Stop worrying yourself about it, alright?”

Gwen does not look convinced. Peter sighs, and puts an arm around her shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to her head. “I’m fine. _Really.”_

  “No, no, I believe you… It’s just…” She trails off. He looks at her.

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine, Peter.”

“That makes two of us,” Peter notes, trying to sound optimistic, knowing that both of them are lying to each other. It’s not very reassuring, but he assumes whatever’s bothering Gwen must be personal, and Peter is never one to pry over those types of things. Gwen isn’t, either, so they both just stay quiet.

The train pulls to a stop, signifying the end of the ride.

* * *

 

 

Six hours later Peter is exhausted.

Six hours later he totes seven different bags, three in his left arm and four in his right; Gwen holds five in total.

Peter really doesn’t understand how girls in general can purchase so many things.

The boy has put most of the charges on his own credit card (given to him as a birthday present when he was thirteen), just to spare Gwen the cost and because Tony won’t notice. It’s not like money is a problem in the Rogers-Stark house.

Gwen protested greatly, of course, but Peter and his “fucking cutie”ness won her over eventually. (Key word eventually.)

And now it is around six or seven or something in that range; Peter is greatly looking forward to _eating_. Mexican food was promised, and now it shall be given.

As mentioned some few chapters ago, he does not much like tacos, but beef quesadillas are Peter’s _life_. He can eat two in one sitting, he loves them so much (Gwen despises her boyfriend’s quick metabolism).

“Get a table,” Peter tells Gwen, knowing that she wants two soft-shelled tacos (with everything but tomatoes), heading up to the front after dropping off the bags he carries. She does, and waits.

The place is called Fresh Mexican Cuisine.

The place is also not very fresh and not very Mexican (all the employees are Asian), but Peter has heard that their food is phenomenal (if he can trust reviews on Google).

“Hello,” says one of order-taking people.

“Hi,” says Peter. “I’d like two beef quesadillas with baja sauce and two twin tacos with everything but tomatoes, please.” He gives the girl a polite smile. She smiles back.

“Alright. Your number is 23.” She hands Peter a slip of paper with the two said digits printed on it. He takes it, then moves back to sit with Gwen, who is looking over the stack of receipts she now possesses.

“I think the clothes place charged us wrong.” 

“Which one?” Peter asks, adjusting his glasses.

“The place where we got the skirt.”

_“Which one?”_

Gwen gives him a look. “One of the places, ok? They charged us too much.” She offers the receipt. Peter pretends to read it over.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Oh, well. I mean… it was only a few cents.”

“You wanna go back and fix it?”

“Nah. Just keep in mind never to trust that place again.”

“I don’t know which one it is.”

Gwen doesn’t have time to answer because someone at the front has just called out “Number 23~”; Peter stands and heads over that way.

“Thanks,” he mumbles hurriedly, taking he and his girlfriend’s food from the same lady that had taken his order. She beams.

“Oh my God, I am _starving_.” This is Gwen, perking up as Peter arrives back at the table.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, sitting. He takes out his and Gwen’s food and divides it accordingly. “Me too.”

Another thing he loves aboot Gwen is that silence is permitted; in this case, no one talks while they feast. It is quiet, space only filled by the loud sound of chewing and “mm” noises that escape their mouths at times, whether it be the taste or simply because one has dropped a bit of lettuce or cheese onto their wrapper.

Peter finishes quickly. Gwen gives him a look over her second taco.

“Oh, screw you,” she says after swallowing. Peter grins.

“I was hungry.”

“I can see that.” The girl smiles, and tucks yellow hair behind her ear. “Just wait for me, alright?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“There’s a girl over there who’s five times prettier than me and is definitely eating neater than I am.”

Peter doesn’t bother looking. “No one’s prettier than you.” He cracks a small half-smile. “Wouldn’t be so sure about the other part, though…”

Gwen slaps at his hand, covering her mouth to prevent a spray of beef in Peter’s direction. “Shut up!”  

“What?” he asks innocently, chuckling and lifting his camera to snap a photo of her face.

  “Don’t you dare.”

“Sorry. Already took it.”

“Delete it! I’m _eating!”_  

“So? You look great all the same.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“Why?”

Gwen doesn't answer, and takes another bite of her taco, rolling her eyes playfully.

The door opens behind Peter. Of course, he wouldn't think much of it (it has been opening and and closing for the past twenty minutes he's been sitting here) normally, but this time something is different. This time Peter's Spider-sense goes off, a sharp ringing beginning to echo in his ears. The fact that Gwen’s eyes uncharacteristically widen adds to the tingling, and by the time he hears a loud, annoyingly familiar voice call out, “Hey! WooJoo! Goddamn it, guys, when did I tell you to put my chair in the corner…?!", Peter is aboot ready to turn around and send a flying kick with a spray of webs at the man who has spoken. 

“Wade!” calls out some girl. “Catch!”

Peter stiffens. Gwen stares over his shoulder.

“Ooh, gifts!” The sound of crinkling taco wrapper hits hands, and it is unwrapped.

Peter stiffens harder. Gwen continues staring.

“Aw, Jess, you didn’t _have_ to…”

“Bacon-lobster chimichanga, just for you.” 

“Oh my _fuck this is the best moment of my life_. I love you, Jess! Marry me and make me chimichangas until I die, please.”

“Gladly!”

Peter’s eye twitches. Gwen swallows.

“Aw, hello!”

Gwen blushes and quickly looks away. Peter isn’t sure he can stiffen much more, but manages a slight amount farther.

“Say, you’re that girl! From the school. Don’t look at me like that! Of course I remember you. I remember _everyone_ , baby.” 

Peter’s hands curl into fists. Gwen awkwardly studies her taco. Deadpool strolls away, humming cheerfully, and Peter can see him out of his peripheral vision. He imagines beating the guy over the head with Gwen’s remaining wrap. Or perhaps his own chimichanga. Or a burrito. _Something_.

Why. Why here. Why _now_.

Peter mutters a few choice words under his breath. Gwen looks at him helplessly.

“I’m going to get another quesadilla,” he manages (stiffly), casually ripping up a napkin in his fingers. “Be back. In a sec.”

Gwen nods and continues eating, seemingly spooked a bit.

Peter strides his way over to the counter and takes a stand besides the large red-suited man, glancing backwards. Gwen isn’t watching. Good. He makes sure to stand behind this podium of some sort just in case.

He waits.

Deadpool waits.

On line. Both are on line, the latter of the two munching loudly on his chimichanga. Peter notes the mask still on his face and glances away.

Ok then.

They move up a few feet. Peter wonders if he should speak up first. Maybe not. Maybe? Which would be cooler and make him look like the superior one?

He is aboot to clear his throat when Wade reaches over and taps his shoulder, then leans in and points at the menu.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs. Peter resists the urge to stab him in the face with a nearby plastic fork. “Have you ever had the chicken chili burrito?” 

Peter hasn’t, and does not feel the need to. At all. “No.”

“Hm. Should I get it? What do you recommend?” 

He is way too close for Peter’s liking; the boy steps away. “I dunno.” 

“I thought you didn’t like tacos. Why’re you here?”

“Why are _you?”_ Peter snaps, cover blown (if he ever had any). “Aren’t you supposed to be wanted?” 

Wade looks and sounds very proud of himself. “You know Logan?”

“Logan who?”

“Just Logan.” 

“No.”

“Well, Logan has friends. And you know his friends? His _friends_ , dammit, his _friends_. They can _do stuff.”_

“Ok.”

“Yeah, I know. They have power, dude, you wouldn’t even know. Let me off the hook.”

“Are there always people picking up after your messes?”

“Messes?”

“Messes.” 

“What mess did I make?”

Peter sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

_How?_ How could they just… let him off? Was that even possible? 

“You decapitated three people,” he states, unamused. “ _Three_ people, Mr. Wilson.”

“Call me Wade.”

“No.”

“Again, you weren't supposed to see that. Don’t you see? I was waiting for all you children to _exit_ the room, silly. So they wouldn’t react like… this.”

“You _murdered_ them.”

“For good reasons!”

“And what might those be?”

“Classified information,” Wade tells Peter very proudly, like he doesn't usually get to tell people that his information is classified. He probably doesn’t, now that Peter thinks aboot it. Only an idiot would be dumb enough to hire  _this guy_ to keep secrets.

“Dammit. Tell me. I saw it, alright? I won’t tell anyone. Um, promise.”

There is a slight pause.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Pinkie swear.”

Peter stares in utter disbelief. “U-uh, what?”

Deadpool extends his left pinkie. “C’mon, kid.”

The boy bites his lip, glances back at Gwen again (she is still eating), then reluctantly links his little finger around Wade’s. “You’re so weird…”

“I try.” Peter is suddenly yanked from the line then dragged away from it, into one of the bathrooms.

The boy bristles. “Wh-what the hell…?!”

  “Sh sh sh.” Deadpool puts one finger to his lips and another to Peter’s; Peter moves it away. “Do you know how many rules I’m breaking right now? So _many_. It’s fucking _awesome!”_

“Ok,” Peter mutters, not sure that this information is worth it. Really, what if he had been someone else? Who’d actually _wanted_ it for evil, not-nice purposes? _Bad guy_ purposes? Would Wade had still told?! Some superhero _Deadpool_  is.

The said superhero squeals.

“I thought we were supposed to be quiet,” Peter says sourly. Wade nods.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Sh. I’m shutting up now.” He shoves the boy against a wall roughly and for a second Peter thinks he might have to web the creep, but stops himself at the last second. He thinks of Gwen, poor lonely Gwen, and hisses, “Hurry up.”

“Alright, alright.” Deadpool lowers his voice. _“Someone wants to bomb your school.”_

Peter blinks. “What?” 

_“Someone wants to bomb-“_

_“Why?!”_

“I dunno. I was just sent there to stop them.”

“The people in black?”

“Yeah. Them.”

Peter pushes Wade away, a whole new problem surfacing into his brain. _Who the hell_ wants to _bomb_ his school? Why? Why _this_ particular school? Why with ninjas? WHY WHYW HWHWYWHWYGWHWEJ

“Who’s their leader?”

“Edward Newton. Some hotshot mafia dude you probably don’t know.”

Peter quickly scans the bathroom for cameras. There are none, as he can see.

He also notes the lack of urinals, and opens his mouth to scold the restaurant for not installing any.

He also notes the pink walls.

“Holy crap,” the boy states, solemnly, and looks at Deadpool. “Wade.” The whole school bombing dilemma has vanished from his mind.

“You called me Wade!”

Peter slaps himself for it. Not really. But he wants to. Desperately.

“We’re in the women’s bathroom.”

There is a pause as Wade looks around. He snickers. “Are we?”

“Y…yes.”

“Oops.” 

_“‘Oops’?!_ That’s _all?_ Mr. Wilson, we’re-“

“Aw. What happened to the Wade?”

_“Mr. Wilson,”_ says Peter through gritted teeth, “why are we in the women’s bathroom?”

“How am I supposed to know?” 

“You _dragged me in here!”_

“You know, kid, you kinda remind me of someone.”

Peter stiffens. _Be nicer. Be nicer._ “Ok. Who?”

“My good friend Spidey. You know him? Spiderman?”

_Spidey._ There it is again.

“O-of course. Who doesn’t?”

“Yeah, I guess. Wanna know something, kid? He’s not… as great as you all think he is.” Wade pouts. “He’s kinda mean.”

Peter moves his jaw around. “Oh? That’s… What does he say to you?”

“He said I sound like an old man.” The man grabs Peter’s shoulders, almost desperately. “Please tell me I don’t and he was just being a dick!” The boy swallows.

“I… you don’t. You… don’t. Yeah. You sound young.”

Peter isn’t sure how old he sounds. Twenty-something, he guesses.

“You sure?”

“Y-yeah.”

“How sure?” 

“Um… very?”

“I’m thirty-five.” 

Peter nods. “Ok.” Honestly, he was expecting younger. Thirty-five is an appropriate age for a superhero, he assumes. Or he hopes he assumes (correctly).

The door to the bathroom opens, and a familiar jacket plus head of blonde hair plus headband enter, casually. Peter’s face falls, and his heart implodes in on itself.

Oh, no. No NO No NONONONO.

“Hello,” Wade greets cheerfully.

_“You?!”_ Gwen manages in her shock. Peter covers his face in his hands, then uses these hands to grab Deadpool’s own and throw them to the side, _off_ of his shoulders.

“Hi… Gwen. Um. Just. Just, um.”

“Friendly argument,” Wade suggests. “Cheerful brawl. You know. Manly stuff!” 

Gwen is not convinced. “Um…?” she asks. Peter groans.

“Gwen. Oh, crap. This isn’t what it looks like. We were talking. Arguing. Like he said.”

“Like he said _,”_ she repeats. “Like he _said_.” 

“Like he said…?”

“Like I said!” 

“Arguing about _what?”_

“You know. The thing. At school.”

“Decapitation,” Wade says seriously. “Very important business. I assume you are this fine young man’s girlfriend?”

Peter growls and pushes the man backwards; Deadpool stumbles and looks slightly surprised that such a kid has the ability to do so. Gwen does too. 

Peter is just aboot done with life in general.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, pushing past Wade, taking Gwen’s hand, and leading her out.

“But what about-“

“Not important. Let’s go.”

They exit the building, walk down the street until Gwen realizes they have forgotten her stuff, go back, retrieve it, and ignore Wade on their way out again.

The man is giggling mockingly.

Peter really wants to kill him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really crappy chapter; please ignore. The next one shall be better written (I hope), more interesting, and longer. Pinkie promise. 
> 
> AND IF ANY RICH PEOPLE WERE OFFENDED I'M SORRY THAT'S JUST HOW PETER VIEWS IT DON'T HATE ME PLEASE


	6. a Bank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is your local bank getting robbed? Have no fear; your Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman is here to help! And that... other guy with the swords!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how many nice comments I've been getting 0.0
> 
> Thank you all so much!!

The sixth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on March 30, in the middle of the day, on a Monday.

* * *

 

It is a school day, of course, but Peter doesn’t much mind. He has not been grounded for a while now, but has been taking it easy so that he won’t become as such again.

But now he is out. Now he decides Los Angeles is danger, and that it needs its Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman. Even if it means the Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman skips class.

He perches, squatting, atop of a building (as he always is), fingers gently touching the building between his crouched legs. The boy squints, gazing out over the city and waiting for any sign of _anything_ that might result in harm, crime, danger, whatever.

It is an unusually quiet day.

Peter sighs quietly, and shifts his position. Gwen is still a little baffled aboot last week’s events at the Mexican place; he has desperately been trying to make it up to her. Food, money, hugs, kisses, apologies, clothes, trips to the beach… She continuously tells Peter it’s fine, but he knows it isn’t.

Fucking Deadpool, ruining everything.

Peter’s hands curl into fists, then relax. _He_ relaxes; he must. He _must_.

A bunch of cars drive by. One parks at the entrance of the City National Bank, and Peter cocks his head. Something’s up, he can tell. The familiar tingling sensation of his entire body initiates. The boy waits a few more seconds before quietly lowering himself down from the building he is on by web, then climbing up a nearer streetlight instead.

He balances at the top, watching. A few people glance up and him and make shocked, OOH SPIDERMAN noises; Peter is used to this.

Two people get out of the car. One is taller than the other, much taller, with a large head of bushy blonde hair; as he walks, he stuffs a dark, dirty orange cap over it. His friend is shorter and fatter (much more so) with shorter, browner hair. He follows the tall one, who’s got a mask pulled over his nose and mouth. The fat one doesn’t bother with covering his own face.

Peter smirks. He has them now, and they have no idea.

He attempts to get a peek into the car; the windows are tinted, but Peter can still see a dark silhouette in the driver’s seat.

One of the men (the tall one) carries a large (suspicious) bag; Peter waits for them to enter the building before leaping off his perch and webbing himself over, gracefully and silently. People gawk.

Then, Peter waits. He considers knocking on the window of the men’s car, but decides against it. He also considers calling the police, but decides against it; he’ll only do this when he’s _sure_ that these guys aren’t here to just deposit a few hundred bucks.

The boy swallows, and glances around. No one’s giving him away _too_ badly; good. He doesn’t want the men knowing he’s here.

Peter is aboot to go inside the bank himself when a gunshot almost scares him off of it. He springs into action immediately, sliding down the side of the building. He decides not to go inside right away, and settles with looking in through one of the windows; the tall man has a gun out and is pointing it at all of the innocent pedestrians, who have been sprawled out on the floor with their hands on their heads. The fat man is at the cashier, holding open his bag and encouraging the young man there to fill it up with the many green bills he has in possession.

Scanning the area quickly, Peter is glad to report that no one has been killed by the shot.

He swallows, climbs around the building to the back, picks his way inside (he learned from the internet when he was very young because Steve had kept all the candy inside this really securely-locked cabinet), and sneaks through hallway after hallway until he has reached the front lobby.

_Sorry,_ Peter mentally apologizes; he’s sure they won’t mind that someone picked their back door if he saves the place from an intense robbery.

The boy takes refuse behind a lone counter.

“Hurry it up,” growls the fat man taking the money. He too has a gun (a pistol), and is holding it roughly up to the poor cashier’s face. The guy is shaking, hurriedly shoving money into the sack; this angers Peter on a personal level. He himself was bullied in elementary and middle school (and still is, if not for Gwen, his princess in shining armor), and even though this way worse than bullying, the boy still feels emotional sympathy for the other. The feeling of helplessness is one that Peter hates probably more than anything.

One arm takes the gun for itself and the other webs the man in the face.

Peter puts the pistol down; he is not one to use guns (more like he doesn’t exactly know _how_ ).

This has caused a slight distraction; Fatty is clawing frantically at his blinded face, the cashier has ducked under the counter, and Tall Gunman spins around to face the disruption. For the one second he is not looking, Peter speeds across the room to the guy (who is much taller than Peter himself), and kicks the gun out of his hands. Tall Gunman swivels back around, and Peter jabs at his nose. Surprisingly, his hand is caught; Peter dodges the man’s own punch.

“Get out,” he briefly mutters at the people behind him. Many scramble to their feet and to the door. “And call the police for me, would you?”

Tall Gunman shoves Peter backwards then kicks him in the chest.

A spray of stickiness is sent into the offender’s eyes, and he snarls, backing off for a second. Peter is aboot to charge forward in attack when a pair of strong arms wraps around his throat, dragging him away, towards a counter which he is violently hurled over.

Hm. Fatty is stronger than Peter initially thought.

The boy leaps over said counter in a flying kick; his foot makes contact with the guy’s face, and he backflips off of it, landing on his feet, back atop the counter. Then Peter proceeds to punching the man as fast as he possibly can, aiming for the eyes and nose mostly. He is doing a pretty good job of it until a gunshot rings out, and Peter hears and feels a bullet fly past his face, just missing the boy’s nose as he jerks wildly to avoid it. He glances in the direction it came from.

Tall Gunman is back, and this time, he’s not alone. He’s brought his friendly sidekick named the AA-12, which is fully loaded and very ready to kill some bitches.

Peter is not pleased.

Fatty uses this distraction to yank Spiderman off the counter and onto the floor; Peter catches himself and springs back up, bringing a kick to the man’s chest as he does so. He shoots a web at Tall Gunman’s gun, which moves out of the way just in time and fires again, this time not at Peter but at the cashier, who is making a frantic move to the front door.

“FUCK,” says Peter, and he leaps to push to kid, or perhaps catch the bullets out of air with a web, but Fatty has grabbed onto his leg from the floor and he trips.

What would Peter do if someone got killed under his watch? He wouldn’t be to take it. Guilty for the rest of his life, he will be.

Loud, deafening sirens begin to blare.

_Well, aren’t you guys right on time,_ Peter thinks, irritably, as he flips over, smashes Fatty’s nose with one foot, and leaps out of his grasp, pushing himself up. Before he can check if the cashier boy is dead, he spots Fatty fleeing to the door, cash sack in hand, and shoots a string of white at his back. It catches him, and Peter pulls him back; he drops the money with a loud yelp.

“What the fuck are you doing, McCormick?!” he shouts out, apparently referring to Tall Gunman, whom hasn’t been shooting at Peter in awhile. The boy quickly secures Fatty to a wall, then turns to see McCormick aiming at something that is not him. The cashier kid is stumbling out the door, unharmed.

Peter blinks, doesn’t take time to think aboot it, and webs himself over to the gunman, who swings around to look at him with wide blue eyes; a very frustrated Spiderman lands on his face and promptly begins punching him with all the might he can muster.

“Fuckin’…!” he manages. Peter ignores it, kicks him again, gets his leg grabbed, is tripped (again), and yanks his ankle away. McCormick gets to his feet and takes a half second to aim at his the temporarily-down opponent, gets his head kicked from behind, forgets to pull the trigger, turns around, gets his legs kicked out from under him, falls, shoots upwards, hits someone that is not Peter, scrambles backwards, and gets to his feet in an instant.

_He’s good,_ Peter thinks briefly, because he is. He punches, gets punched back, and then someone else punches.

Oh, hell no.

“OH, HELL NO!”

Deadpool jabs with both swords; he misses. “Heya, Spidey!”

“What the hell are you doing here?!”

McCormick fires. Wade sticks his arm in front of Peter’s face, and the bullets hit that instead. The boy cries out.

_“What the hell are you doing?!?”_

“Saving your fucking life! What does it look like?”

   Both suited males attack, and McCormick pulls the trigger. Again. A spray of bullets is spat out, all aimed at the taller of his opponents. Each one penetrates deeply, blood flying out in some cases, and yet Wade Wilson does not flinch.

“Oh, come on,” he says instead. Peter is too busy staring to do anything useful (such as take the gun from McCormick’s hands), and so Deadpool moves instead, kicking the AA-12 across the room. His entire torso is decorated in an assortment of bullet holes, each one bleeding to their fullest extent.

Both Peter and the gunman are really too shocked to react to anything that happens next. It is because of this Peter does not turn when he senses a presence behind him, and a long metal pole makes contact with his skull.

The boy falls to the floor painfully; this seems to have brought his brain back to its normal self and he kicks at the first pair of legs he sees; too bad it’s Wade’s.

“What the FUCK, dude?!” says the man, offended beyond all offend, as he deflects foot that comes flying his way and takes the smack of the pole. Blood pools around him.

Oops. Peter scrambles back to his feet, feeling a bit dizzy, and promptly engages in combat with McCormick, who has bits of web stuck to his hair and clothes. Peter wonders briefly how those got there.

“Why don’t you fucking die,” Fatty snarls, continuously whacking Wade in the face with the pole he totes. It is caught by the man, who drags the other to the floor.

“I _had_ this,” Peter yells out, keeping his eyes fixed on the gunman, who is admittedly very skilled in combat. “I _still_ have it!”

“Apparently not,” Deadpool retorts, he himself at war with McCormick’s friend. “If I hadn’t been here, you’d be frickin’ _minced meat_ by now. Did you _see_ that bad boy? I’d die five times over for a gun like that.” He defects a blow delivered by Fatty. “And besides, I was here first. So technically, _I’ve_ got it.” 

“No, I do!” Peter dodges a punch and leaps over a kick.

“Haha, yeah, no.” 

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

“Oh yeah? Says who?”

Fatty and McCormick are seemingly very frustrated that both of these men can talk while fighting as well as them at the same time without trouble; they pick up the pace, but Peter can tell his opponent is weakening.

“Says logic! You were freaking _mauled_ by those-“

“Oh, yeah, those. Don’t worry your pretty little head over that, sweetcheeks. Ha! Sweetcheeks. I like that.”

Peter delivers an extra hard punch at McCormick, pretending that it is Wade.

“Well, I don’t!”

“Aw, lighten up. It’s not like _you’re_ the one with five million bullet holes in his chest.”

“Will you guys _shut up?!”_ growls Fatty, only to be silenced with a particularly harsh smack on the head with one of Deadpool’s guns, then a slice in the chest with a sword. He collapses.

“Need help?”

“NO!” Peter kicks McCormick onto his back, then in the balls, then in the knee. He angrily tethers the man up into a mummy-like figure (with the head out) and turns to defiantly to face Wade just as the police storm into the building, yelling and screaming and holding up guns.

Deadpool grins, flashes Peter a thumbs-up, and vanishes almost instantly; he is over the by the window and out before the boy can say anything aboot the fact that all of the bullet wounds previously present are gone.

Spiderman swallows, turns, and retreats out the way he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, isn't this the most well-protected bank in all of California? 
> 
> I'm sorry for my inaccuracy, but the bad security system that I invented is needed for the plot ;^:
> 
> If anyone can give me the names of the bank robbers I will love you and be your friend forever :D
> 
> Also, an AA-12 (the Auto Assault-12) is a fully automatic shotgun that looks cool so I decided to give it to McCormick.


	7. the Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter breaks into his school to go for a late-night swim; apparently he isn't the only one with such an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to post this... ;^;
> 
> But it's here now, and you can read it, haha.

The seventh time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on April 19, a calm Sunday evening.

* * *

 

 

It is on this calm Sunday evening that Peter Parker Rogers Stark decides that he wants to go swimming.

He wants to swim six laps of freestyle and two of backstroke. He does not know why, but he does. Do not argue with him and his desires.

Peter stuffs his jeans over his swimming trunks, puts a pair of red goggles in his pocket, and heads down to his house’s large indoor swimming pool.

“Oh, don't go in there,” Tony says just as the boy is aboot to step in. The man is lounging on a couch in front of the fireplace, sipping expensive wine and admiring the night outside. Peter glances over.

“Why not?” 

“Pool guy just came and shocked it. I don’t think it’s safe.” 

“Oh.” Peter doesn’t completely believe his father and looks doubtfully back at the pool, blue water lapping gently up against the stairs. “Ok. How about the outdoor one?” 

“Fine.” 

He heads out that way, and spots his other father doing very vigorous, fast laps, back and forth through the water, without goggles. Peter watches him for a second, and sighs, because he knows he can never be so athletic and cool like his Pops Steve.

Oh, well. It’s awkward to swim with one’s dad anyway. Peter turns, assuming he should just head back to his room and try tomorrow.

At the foot of the stairs, he stops.

“Hey, Dad?” he calls out, heading over to the front door slowly.

“Hm?”

“Can I go out with Gwen to see a movie?”

“What happened to swimming?”

“I… Pops’ in the other pool.”

“Hm.” This certain comment is thoughtful. Peter resists an eyeroll. “Alright. Be back before eleven.” 

“Sure thing, Dad.” Peter grins to himself, and exits the house, heading down not to Gwen’s house, nor the movie theater, but the train station.

And from the train station to LA to his school a few blocks from that one.

Hands in pockets, Peter strolls, whistling quietly to himself and contemplating life.

His school has a swimming pool. A very nice one, at that, actually; why should it go to waste, only used maybe twice a week (Peter’s school’s swim team isn’t really the most ambitious one out there)? Peter plans to use it, even if it means breaking into the school. _That_ part won’t be very hard; the hard part will be thinking of something to do if he gets caught. The boy assumes that hiding in the locker rooms seems reasonable enough. Maybe in a locker. Maybe on the ceiling. Maybe at the bottom of the pool. He’ll figure it out.

The boy spots a lone newspaper lying in the middle of the sidewalk, and, as he passes, spots himself on the cover, along with his _“good friend and sidekick”_ Deadpool. Both are fighting intensely, and, in the picture, Spiderman happens to be in the process of being punched in the face.

Peter swallows, picks up the newspaper, and chucks it into the nearest trashcan. His dads hadn’t been very happy aboot this event. Not at all.

Luckily, the picture had been taken from the bank’s low quality security cameras; nothing too serious had been revealed. Peter had read the article a few days ago when it’d come out. Mostly it involved normal propaganda stuff aboot Spiderman and his new sidekick (this part really annoyed Peter on a personal level), fighting evil together, running off into the sunset, holding hands, blah blah blah. Stupid reporters.

He wipes the thought from his mind and continues walking.

Once at his school, Peter walks in a large circle around it, looking for any easy sign of entrance… ah, yes, there is an open window, up at the third floor. He knows his school has cameras installed, so (the best solution he can think of) he tugs his hoodie’s hood as far over his face as it will go, waits until the security guard has left his sight, leaps over the short fence surrounding the property, and makes a run for it.

There aren’t so many cameras on the inside than outside, luckily, so once Peter has climbed up the brick wall to the window he sees and collapses inside, he relaxes (more or less).

Oh. This is his science classroom. How lovely.

The boy quietly sneaks out and scurries through the hallways, a rush of adrenaline shooting through his body, from head to toe. He moves faster.

Once he has actually _reached_ the pool (which is glistening prettily in the moonlight that shines through the skylights), Peter’s heart threatens to simply pop out of his mouth from his throat and beat on somewhere that _isn’t_ his body. Like the floor. Or in the water.

He strips his clothes besides the trunks he wears, puts them in a neat pile in the corner of the room, and gently lowers a toe into the pool, testing the temperature. It is a sort of cool one, perfect for a hot night such as this.

Peter secures goggles on his face, takes a deep breath, and smoothly dives in.

One arm after the other, he reaches the other end with only two moments of lifting his head out of the water. He completes a flipturn, then swims back over to where he started, and repeats. And repeats. And repeats.

Peter repeats this process until he is tired, rests, then begins his backstroke; it is slower, calmer, and lets him gaze up at the faint stars above. The boy really does like them. Light pollution from Los Angeles at night, however, doesn’t really let them shine to their fullest extent. The boy hopes that perhaps the yearly family trip to the Canadian Rockies is sometime soon; Peter misses it. Ah, the fresh air, the trees, the snow…

He does like snow.

Even in the summer, the mountains up there can get cold, though, usually, it really doesn’t (the lowest temperature Peter has experienced is maybe 39 degrees Fahrenheit), but, Peter being a Californian kid, thinks it’s cold anyway, used to the annoyingly hot year-round temperatures.

He pushes off one end of the pool again, closing his eyes and letting his arms carry him along the length of it, relishing the feeling of cool water parting around his body as it slicks through the liquid quickly and comfortingly.

Because Peter is closing his eyes, he does not see the other hard concrete edge, and does not take into account that it exists; perhaps he believes he can just swim on forever, forever and ever until he falls off the face of the earth.

Except, he cannot, and whoever’s cupped hands Peter’s head enters right before he slams into the edge of the pool (instead of the earth) has taken this into consideration and is helping the boy out.

Peter does not take it this way, however. His eyes shoot open, and they meet the gaze of a familiar red-masked face (with black eye-holes), which beams a friendly greeting.

A strange noise escapes the boy’s throat, and he scrambles to right himself into a treading position. This more or less fails, and he falls under the surface of the water in his extreme haste, water filling his mouth and nose unpleasantly. A strong hand grabs onto his shoulder and hauls him upwards, out into the cool normal air with oxygen Peter can actually breathe in. He does, heavily, then wrenches himself away from the hand and turns, face contorting into an expression of anger and confusion (though mostly anger).

“Wh-why… what… _why…?!?”_

“Nice to see you too, dear friend! How’s the water?”

Peter does not answer, as he cannot think of anything witty and intelligent say as a comeback.

WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING HERE. WHY IS HE HERE. WHY THE HELL IS HERE. HE SHOULDN’T BE HERE. HE HAS NO RIGHT TO BE HERE. NO RIGHT.

“Why did you _touch_ my _head?!”_ he sputters out instead. Wade glances at said head.

“Hey, you were aboot to smash it into this thing here.” He pats the concrete. “And we wouldn’t want _that_ happening, would we, so I stepped in. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

Peter does not thank him. He continues sputtering.

Deadpool leans over and puts a finger to his lips, like he had the day in the bathroom.

“Sh. You’re freaking out.”

“Of _course_ I’m freaking out! You… you… _snuck_  up on me while I was swimming! When I was _swimming!”_ He slaps the man’s hand away. “Why… why are you _here…?!”_

“Are you saying I can’t swim when I want to?”

“This is a _school!_ How did you even get in?” 

Wade shrugs. “Same way you did, I’m assuming. You know, through a window.”

Peter eyes Deadpool’s chest; absolutely no sign of the bullet holes he’d witnessed back at the bank. He looks fine. More than fine. Better than Peter.

Wade glances down at himself. “You like?” he asks, patting his admittedly-impressive eight-pack. Peter wishes for even a decent six. Yes, he faces off with full-grown men twice his size on a daily basis, but that has no effect on his abs, it seems (though it does, Peter just isn’t very good at toting a handsome stomach). “Me too. Nice to know people notice.”

Peter flushes, and averts his eyes to Wade’s face. “Go away. Find a different pool. I’m in this one.”

“Yes, I can see that. And I’m very proud of you; you got here before me. Usually I’m the only one here.”

“You come here _often?!”_  

“Oh, every night! Do you know how _pleasant_ it is in here? No one ever checks! Really!”

Well, this is good news, at least.

“S-since when?”

“Ever since that thing with the bomber ninjas. We saw this thing, and _holy hell._ We _freaked.”_

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “Who’s 'we'?”

Obvious hesitation clouds over Wade’s face, and he chuckles. “Oh. Ha. Me and the bombers. They freaked too, believe it or not. It was pretty hilarious, actually.”

Peter does not question this.

“So, how was it?” 

“… how was what?”

“You and your girlfriend. Did she break up with you? Did she yell at you? Did she yell at me?”

  Peter stiffens, and he looks away, tired of treading but not daring to approach Wade and grab onto the side of the pool. He knows exactly what Wade is talking aboot, and this certain fact bothers him slightly. “No, no, and no. She was pretty chill about it, actually. We didn’t talk about it.”  

Deadpool raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You’re lying.” 

“No, I’m not.”

The man laughs, and slaps his knee. “She _is_ chill. You’d better appreciate her, or I might have to shoot you and take her for myself.”

Peter stares. “You’re a pervert,” he states. Damn it, he really _is_. “You realize she’s fifteen, right?”

There is a pause in which Wade takes the time to blush, giggle, and slap himself in the face all at the same time.

“Holy shit!”

“Holy shit is right,” the one in the pool mutters.

“I thought you all were in, I dunno, the highest grade.” 

“Twelfth?”

“Whatever the fuck it is!”

  “Twelfth.”

“Yeah, yeah, that. Then you’d be, what, eighteen? That’s appropriate, right?” 

Peter only stares. “Please stop talking to me.” 

“Aw, I’m sorry. Don’t leave me-"

“Shut. Up.” Peter turns and begins to swim away, to where his clothes are. “Get out. Go away. Never speak to me again.” 

“I thought we were friends?” 

“Screw you and your fantasies.”

“Hey, in _my_ fantasies you’re a naked overage fangirl with an undying love for me.”

Peter grits his teeth. “You _are_ a pervert.”

“Never said I wasn’t!” 

“What did I say about talking to me?” He hoists himself out of the pool, water dripping from his hair and body and swimming trunks. The boy shakes his locks out, smoothing them back.

“Ooh. Very hot. I can see why she likes you.” 

Peter stiffens, and snatches for a towel that he doesn’t have. He curses under his breath, deciding not to answer Wade, instead scooping up his clothes and making his way to the other side of the pool where the idiot is, watching him casually.

“Go away.”

“Why’re coming over here? Your stuff was over where I’m not!” 

“To the locker room. To get a towel.” 

“Didn’t Towelie ever tell you to never forget to bring one?” Wade tosses Peter one folded up besides him neatly. The boy catches it, eyeing it suspiciously.

“What?” 

“Eh. Guess you don’t watch it.” Deadpool sighs, and stretches his arms out, standing. “I _was_ going to swim, but since you were already here…” He notices Peter doubting his towel and groans. “Oh, come on. Yes, I wash that thing! Stop judging me and my hygiene, would you?”

“I wasn’t…” Yes, you were, Peter. Stop lying. He awkwardly dabs himself with the white thing, gingerly and carefully. Wade watches him.

“You’re acting like I have fucking lice or something. And we don’t even _have_ hair!”

“Maybe you do. How would I know?” Peter, again, does not question the “we” thing.

“Trust me. It’s a thing friends do.” 

“We’re not _friends!_ You don’t even know my _name!”_

Wade winks, and briefly flashes some finger sign Peter doesn’t recognize. “Sh. You know _mine.”_

He chucks the towel back at the man. “Take your rags back.”

“Ouch. I bought this from Bed Bath and Beyond, you know.” 

“I don’t care.” Peter pulls his jeans and shirt and web shooters and whatever else on, straightening afterwards and looking around. Ah, the night is young; still only ten. He still has an hour to blow before heading back.

“Where’re you going?” Wade asks even though the boy is standing still.

“Home,” Peter says, and takes a step forward just as someone smashes into the room. 

“Stop where you are,” he (it is a male, a security guard) calls out, switching the lights that had not previously been on on. Peter is blinded by the sudden overdose of light. “Both of you are trespassing on school grounds.” 

“I realized,” Wade answers.

“I thought you said no one ever checked,” Peter hisses.

“They usually don’t.”

  “Usually.” 

“What’re whispering over there,” the guard snaps, more exasperated than angry. Peter would be too if _his_ job involved staying up all night prowling around a closed school and waiting for something exciting to happen so he wouldn't just collapse from boredom. Apparently he is either used to seeing weird muscular men dress up in red spandex suits or he hasn't spotted the weapons yet.

“We were just leaving,” Peter offers, his damp body wetting his clothes and making them slightly unpleasant to be in.

“Sorry,” the security guard says. “I can’t let you. You’ll have to come with me.” 

“What?!” Wade demands, indignantly. “WHY?” 

“Because you’re on school grounds after they’re closed.” He sighs. “Really, nothing much is going to happen. They’ll phone your parents, give you some warning sl-“ 

“My _parents?!”_

“Dude, I’m a grown man.” 

The guard looks at both of them.

They cannot call Peter parents. They _cannot_.

“You can’t call my parents,” he says, voice rushed and nervous. “They’ll… um, they’re at some business trip. Thing. Together. They’re not here to pick me up.” 

“Well, I’m sure the officials will figure that out.”

“The officials…?” Peter pales. He can feel Wade’s intense gaze bore into the side of his head. “Are they _here_ yet…?”

“No. Please, stop talking. Just come with me. Everything’s gonna be fine. Nice and easy.” 

Except that it isn’t fine, nor nice, nor easy. Peter does not move. Deadpool takes a cautious step towards him, whispering under his breath, “Just go along with it.” 

At first Peter thinks he means go along with the security guard, and is aboot to retaliate sharply when Spider-sense tingles, an arm wraps around his throat, and a gun is pressed up to his temple.

“Wh-“ he begins to stutter out. 

“WHOA WHOA WHOA,” the security guard yelps, throwing his arms out. He doesn’t exactly have any weapons of his own; he withdraws a walkie-talkie instead and opens his mouth to speak into it.

Deadpool lifts his arm and shoots it out of his hand.

Peter cries out, and is immediately silenced by the cold metal surface of the barrel.

What was this? Weren’t he and Wade supposed to be _friends_ are something? Or had this been his plan all along, to shoot little Peter in the face at one point? Maybe he _does_ know Peter is Spiderman. Maybe he doesn’t like Spiderman and wants to eliminate all superhero competition.

“What are you _doing?!”_ he shrieks in an act of desperation, feeling himself shaking. He can easily get out of this, do some few webby things, and escape out one of the skylights. It would be easy, except that there are two very alive and perky people watching.

“Calm down, kid,” Wade mutters so the guard cannot hear. “The safety’s on.”

  Peter does not actually know what that means but hopes that it’s good. Safety is good, right?

“Sir.” This is the guard, now lost of his walkie-talkie. “Please. Put the gun _and_ the kid down.”

“Let us go, and he’s fine!” Deadpool chirps, like this is all good. “C’mon. You know you wanna. I mean, I could blast you away. Right now! Don’t you want to get out, you know, save your life?” He beams, and puts his finger on the trigger. Peter stiffens. “Come on, guy.” 

Deadpool’s headlock is surprisingly weak, Peter thinks, briefly, for such a strong man. He continuously ponders on how easily he would be able to get out of it.

Spidey sense is going slightly insane at this point.

“Sir. Please. Gun. Down.” 

“The name’s Pool,” Wade snickers. “Deadpool.”

And with that he holsters the gun, lifts Peter clear off the ground, and leaps out one of the glass windows surrounding the pool, shattering the entire pane as he does. Then, they are falling.

Peter lets out a yelp, his natural instinct being to shoot a web out to catch himself, but his arms are pinned firmly to his sides as the wind whips through his wet hair and past his face. Deadpool whoops. Peter watches the window slowly shrink as they grow farther and farther from it.

There is a very loud thump, and the decent is over.

Peter is completely unharmed.

The boy decides then that he does _not like falling_. It unnerves him. Shakes him internally.

“Ow,” says the Wade under him. “I think I broke something.” 

Peter gasps suddenly and struggles; he is let go of and rolls over onto the grass, and winces, because glass shards lie everywhere.

Sirens blare, and voices yell.

“Go on, kid,” Wade says, almost cheerfully. “Get on outta here.”

“Y-you _fell_ _five stories onto your back,”_ Peter manages, watching the man closely. He isn’t showing many signs of pain, which slightly bothers him. “Of _course_ you broke something!”

“Sh. They're here.” Deadpool waves Peter away. “There’s a hole in the fence that I came through over there. If you run now you should be able to make it.” 

“You almost shot me!” 

“No, I-“ 

“Your entire back is probably broken! How are you still _alive!_ You shattered glass! You took me with you! You-“

“Give it a minute, kid.” 

“Give _what_ a minute?!” 

“The back. The glass. The whole… falling five stories thing.” “

He… you…”

“Holy hell, dude! What do you want me to say to get you to leave?”

“I don’t… you’ll…-“

“I’m fine. Really.”

“You _can’t move!”_

“Minor setback?”

Peter opens his mouth to talk back but is cut off by the bark of a police officer looking for a “man in red spandex named Dead Pool and a wet kid with brown hair”, and stiffens, glancing helplessly from Wade to the fence mentioned and back again.

Deadpool sighs, and draws his gun again. “Go,” he whispers loudly. “Or I shoot myself.” He fearlessly presses the barrel up to his own temple. “Safety’s off this time.” 

Peter stares. “What are you _doing?”_

“Saving your fucking life! What does it look like?” 

This is exactly what he’d said at the bank, and at the bank Peter had lived when he admittedly probably wouldn’t have if Deadpool hadn’t been there. The boy swallows, gets up, and flees to the hole in the fence.

When he gets home he looks up what safety on a gun is, and notes for future use that it _is_ good when pointing a firearm at a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CALM THE FUCK DOWN PETER THE SAFETY'S ON.
> 
> I do like Spideypool. Spideypool is very good.
> 
> I don't have anything else to say so bye until the next chapter.


	8. a House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiderman and Deadpool stop a robbery together. The police come, Wade gets cocky, and basically everything goes down really badly. And bloodily, though not in the way one might expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: the dialogue in this chapter is kind of awkward. Hope you don't mind much.

The eighth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on May 9; the day he thinks is the last he will ever see the guy.

* * *

 

It’s been nearly a month since the stupid pool incident, and ever since then Peter has had Deadpool on his mind almost every day, checking the news for him and hoping whenever Spiderman goes out he will find him, just so Peter can check to make sure he is still alive (because he’d looked pretty dead last time). He isn’t sure if he wants Wilson to be alive or dead or whatever the hell he is (perhaps something in-between, Peter muses).

Eventually, however, he’d given up on his epic search, assuming that Deadpool had either been killed, arrested, or moved back to Canada. Peter really hoped it was neither of the first two, for the guy’s sake.

Tonight Spiderman hangs out in the suburbs, in Malibu; along the coast.

He is not really sure what he is looking for; crime doesn't usually initiate out here. Why is he not in the city? Because he doesn't want to be.

Apparently Deadpool does not want to be, either, but that is for later.

It is a strong coincidence that Peter decides to hang out on the rooftop of the exact house that this certain man decides to rob.

He does not hear him at first, as he has disabled the alarms. An experienced robber, he must be. The night is quiet, maybe a little chilly, yet Peter doesn’t much mind. He is crouched atop the house, looking out over the ocean as its waves crash onto the rocky cliffs that reside below his home in the distance; it’s a very pretty view, and Peter wishes for his camera. Maybe he will go back and get it.

Just as he is aboot to, Peter hears a scream.

It comes from the house directly below his very feet.

The boy looks down.

Something shatters, and Peter instantly springs upwards, leaps off the side of the house (with the help of webs), and lands in the house’s backyard. Through the sliding glass door he can see a woman holding a baby, both crying, and a man with a gun pointed directly at them. He is rummaging through a fancy-looking case of … something. Peter cannot see very well, as the lights are off inside.

None of the persons appear to have spotted him, so the boy runs, from the back to the front of the house.

_How strange,_ he thinks. _That this guy decides to target this house tonight. It’s your unlucky day, dude!_

Peter, in his excitement, does not notice the figure standing near the front door of the house, and when he turns to enter, he slams directly into it.

Then he punches it. One cannot blame him; he thinks that it is the robber’s friend or something, perhaps the hacker or the driver or the backup. But, no, of course it is not. It is quite the opposite.

“Ow, what gives, Spidey?” 

Spiderman freezes, groans, then relaxes. “Oh,” he says in the dark. “It’s you. Of course it’s you. When is it ever not you?”

“You’re saying it like you don’t want me here.”

“Are you stalking me?”

“Nope. We’re just both really good at identifying crime!”

“Keep it down, ok? I’m supposed to be saving someone’s life and house right now.” Speaking of which, he should probably get to it. The boy sneaks into the house; Deadpool follows.

Why is he always… Doesn't he usually hang out in Los Angeles? Why is he _here?_ And _tonight_ , of all days? WHY? How is alive? He looked pretty fucking dead the last time Peter saw him. Had he gotten out totally fine? This isn’t the first time this thought has passed through his head.  

The man is continuing his taking of all the jewelry (Peter now sees what’s inside the cabinet), stuffing the necklaces and diamonds and bracelets and rings and whatever else roughly, without consideration for the poor things, into a bag. The woman doesn’t even bother protesting; she only focuses on protecting her baby. Peter can understand why.

“Go cover for them,” he tells Wade, and only stares at him. “Make sure this punk doesn’t shoot them.”

“Who put _you_ in charge?”

“I did! Now go!”

By now all three people in the room have noticed the other two, and the robber holds up his gun. Peter webs it out of his hand as Deadpool leaps to the other side of the room, landing in front of the woman and her child, who is wailing at the top of his lungs at this point.

“Who the hell are you people?!” 

“You don’t even know _Spidey?_ Uncultured piece of shit!”

“Shut up, Wade!”

“HOLY FUCK HE REMEMBERS MY NAME!”

“Shut _up_ , Wade!” 

“Who the hell is Wade?!”

“You shut up too!”

The baby screeches. The woman looks up at Deadpool with large wondering eyes, patting her offspring’s back reassuringly.

“Drop the bag!”

“Spidey… Spidey-senpai, love me!” 

“SHUT UP, WADE! DROP THE BAG!”

“Are you talking to _me?”_

“Yes!”

   “SPIDEY-SENPAI!”

_“Please_ … just…” This is the woman, from the corner of the room.

“DROP THE BAG.” 

“Ok, ok, man. Stop yelling.” The robber whistles sharply.

“Stop whistling,” Peter snaps.

“Spidey. Heeey, Spidey!”

_“That’s_ your name?”

“NO! Just… shut up, Wade!!” 

“Spidey. SpideySpideySpideySpideySpidey-“ 

“What the hell do you want?!” 

“Notice me, senpai.”

“What?” 

“The reader thinks it’s cool if I call you senpai.”

  “What the hell is a senpai?!”

   “Some Japanese thing.” 

“You guys are so annoying,” says the robber just as the house’s security alarms begin to scream exceptionally loudly. “I’d rather face the police than you, honestly.”

“Can I shoot you?”

“No,” Peter says, glancing at the gun in his hands and throwing it across the room.  

“Hey, Spidey. Number one rule of gun-handling: don’t _throw_ them.” 

“Shut up.” 

“No Wade this time?”

“No.”  Peter kind of wants to shoot _himself_. Why can’t he just have a crime-fighting night of _peace_ for once…? Well, yeah, yesterday was one, but… why? Why does Deadpool _keep showing up?_

“Don’t you live in LA?” he demands of Wade, who cocks his head curiously.

“Yup. Why?”

“Why are you out… _here?”_

“Same reason you are. Wanted a change of scenery.” 

“That is _not_ why I came here!” 

“Then why did you?”

“Because I-“ He doesn’t get to finish, because the man committing the crime Peter is _supposed_ to be stopping has made a mad dash for the front door. He lifts his arm; a sticky strand of web shoots out, grabbing at the man’s back. “Not so fast, loser.” 

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Spidey?”

_“What?!”_

“The police should be coming soon. You wanna do something aboot… this?”

“What?” 

“The dude. We should probably get out of here.” Deadpool turns to the woman on the floor. “And you. Shh. Don’t say that we were ever here.” He beams. “It’s our little secret, eh?”

She only stares at him.

Peter hears the screech of police cars and their sirens pull up in front of the house. He hurriedly reels the criminal in and wraps him up snugly, pushing him over onto the floor besides the bag of jewelry. A squad of officers burst in through the door, all pointing pistols at the group in the living room, which stares.

“Oops,” Wade says at the same time as one of the men barks out, “Freeze!” 

“Shoot _him,”_ Wade suggests, pointing at the man on the floor, who mutters in protest.

“Anything you say now can and will be used against you in a court of law!”

There is a moment of silence. 

“Boobies,” Deadpool announces.

“Shut up, Wade.” 

“All of you, quiet! Turn around! Hands on your head! On your knees!”

“Are we under arrest?”

The officers do not look very pleased at these answers and questions being voiced, and do not answer, only slowly approaching. “Sir, drop your weapons!” It is obvious they are referring to Deadpool, who doesn’t. He glances at Peter instead.

“Spidey. Move.”

Peter moves, closer to the back door, the sliding one. It is unlocked.

“Don’t move!”

“Get out,” Wade tells Peter, very openly. “We don’t want you getting found out.” 

“Wh-what?”

_“Don’t move!”_

“Go on. I’ll distract them.” This the man says in a quieter voice; the woman looks at him fearfully. “It’s ok if they lift my mask. I think. It’s not ok if they lift yours.”

Good point.

“No.” 

“STOP TALKING OR I SHOOT!”

“I’ll be fine, sweetie, promise. Nice to know you care, though.” 

Peter bristles, and yanks open the door. Wade steps in front of him as one of the officers fires his gun. Peter dodges it with ease, though it hits the man’s shoulder.

“Holy crap.” 

He really doesn’t understand this. Is Wade just really good at hiding pain, or…? It has been happening over and over, this whole Deadpool-gets-injured-then-is-totally-fine thing. It is beginning to disturb Peter greatly.

“Get _out_ , would you? I’ve got this!” 

This is also disturbingly reminding Peter of last month, back at the school. Is this just something Deadpool does on a daily basis, risk his life for others while they escape from things that he can handle better than them?

“You’re just… why are you…-“ Peter feels bad, leaving Wade in middle of something like this for the second time in a row. Even though, technically, he and Spiderman are different people, it really doesn’t… It really… What the hell even…

The night is too peaceful for this. The waves are still crashing, a high tide under the full moon.

Then, just to top it all off, Wade draws one of his enormously-large handguns and shoots himself in the head, flashing Peter a triumphant grin just as he does. His body collapses heavily to the floor.

Literally everyone in the room either gasps or screams.

Peter is one of the ones who has screamed.

“You fucking idiot!” he shouts immediately afterwards, because even if the man annoys him incredibly and sometimes Peter _wishes_ him dead, of course he never _meant_ it. And now he _is;_   _now_  what? What _now?_ This sudden happening has left Peter seemingly in the cold; Deadpool has sacrificed himself for _him…_ WHY? WHY IS EVERYTHING SO COMPLICATED?!  

Though, definitely, the officers are distracted. 

Blood from Wade’s head coats the facing wall. Peter swallows. The man’s efforts will not go in vain; he will use this for his advantage. The boy turns and escapes unnoticed (more or less. Everyone notices but no one bothers stopping him). The last thing Peter catches sight of as he flees is the whole squad crouched around Wade’s dead body and the woman hugging her baby to her chest tighter than even before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I would DIE for Spidey," said Wade Wilson as he did just that.
> 
> Sorry if this sounded a bit like a filler chapter. It is. It's a plot-building one. Hope you enjoyed it anyway, lol ^^


	9. a Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thought he was gone for good, dear Spiderman? Yeah, right. He's back and better than ever, quite ready to infiltrate a certain Superfamily's road trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone gets my music references I will cry.

The ninth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on July 1; Canada Day.

* * *

 

But, of course, the boy is not aware of this, as he is not Canadian.

Wade Wilson is, however.

Though, remember, Wade Wilson is dead, apparently. I

t is nearly two months after the man’s death, which is still imprinted in Peter’s mind unpleasantly: the noise of the gunshot, the blood, Deadpool’s head innards splashing onto Spiderman’s suit…

It makes Peter sick, just thinking aboot it. He, in a way, is guilty; he was the cause of Wade’s death. The fact that he literally _killed_ _himself_  (quite the overreaction to simply being _arrested)_ … Peter is not sure he will ever be able to live that down. Will he? Can he? Why should he?

Because Peter Stark is a good-hearted person. This event will forever stain his conscience.

The boy’s sixteenth birthday (June 27) passed mostly uneventfully (he received a bunch of things he does not really need nor want); the mostly exciting thing that happened was that Tony allowed his son to take short fly around in one of his older, less valued suits, with strong guidance from JARVIS and much encouragement and yelling from a slightly-drunk Uncle Thor. It was fun, very fun. Peter does not mention that it is not quite as good as his own spider-ing tactics.

To him, anyway.

In three days it will be the Fourth of July: Steve Roger’s, Peter’s father’s, and America’s birthday. To celebrate this certain event, the whole Avengers-plus-Peter crew has decided to place their yearly Canadian Rockies trip around this area of time, as Peter’s school is over now and everyone is pretty much free with nothing to do. The trip begins today, July first, and ends two weeks later, on July 15.

The only thing that Peter despises aboot this trip is the fact that the Rogers-Stark family _drives_ every time, and to do so from Malibu all the way to their cabin in Canada in the mountains takes maybe a day, perhaps a few hours more. It really is frustrating. Once Peter tentatively asked why they couldn’t just take a plane like everyone else and Steve had launched into a whole lecture aboot being “traditional” and “real” and whatever. Then Peter had sarcastically suggested they walk if they _really_ wanted to be as such; he’d been sent away from the room while Tony consoled his husband.

He does not argue anymore.

Peter piles the last of the suitcases into the SUV they drive, into the large trunk, then closes it, calling over his shoulder, “That’s the last of it, guys!”

Tony walks over, sunglasses on his tanned Italian face. “Alright, then. Thanks, Pete.” He claps his son on the shoulder before walking around to car to the passenger’s seat (Steve always drives the first few hours).

The boy waits for his other father, glancing back forlornly back at the house, where he has decided to leave his suit, as he probably will not need it up in the mountains. Why would he? It still makes him antsy, though, to leave it all alone in his closet, unprotected.

Stop being paranoid, Peter.

Peter forces himself to stop being paranoid.

Steve finally arrives, toting one final duffel bag, which he plops in the backseat where Peter isn’t sitting, then takes his place behind the wheel.

“ _Goddammit_ , Rogers,” Tony mutters. “Hurry it up, would you? Everyone’s probably there already.” He too is (secretly) on Peter’s side considering the plane idea. The car starts, and the man sighs. “ _Alrighty_ , JARVIS, get us there.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“And don’t forget to take care of the house.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

The robot begins his route guidance, putting Siri and all other GPS devices to shame with his humanoid tone and occasional sassy comments, as if an actual person were leading the family to Canada. Sometimes Peter thinks JARVIS _is_ real. He can’t _not_ be. It’s way too hard to believe.

Of course as soon as they reach the highway the two men begin to argue over something stupid and trivial (in this case, whether Tony brought along his suit or not (he did)). It’s always a drag having to listen to them, which is why Peter plugs two trusty earbuds into his ears and blasts Skillet as loud as he possibly can without pushing himself to deafness.

_Yes, John, I_ am _sick of it._

Eight hours later, Peter is still.

Only he isn’t listening to that song anymore. This time it is a completely different band, which is singing aboot an animal and dining in Hell tonight.

He is lying, sprawled out in the backseat, using the duffel bag as a pillow. Steve and Tony had had this very long heated conversation over whether their son should be allowed to even do that (Tony was on Peter’s side, as he usually always is), no one really even enforcing anything, so the boy stays where he is.

He is too lazy to get up at the rest stop, isn’t particularly hungry, and doesn’t really have to pee either. So, he continues with his music-listening and lazing around.

Steve and Tony both leave to grab a burger or something; the former promises to bring Peter a box of French fries even though he protests. It’s easier to just go along with it, the boy assumes. Maybe he’ll get hungry later.

Not even ten minutes have passed since their departure when someone hisses, “Are they gone yet?”

Peter does not hear it at first because of the music, but when he sees a movement of red out of the corner of his eye and someone taps his shoulder, he cries out, drops his phone into his lap, and jerks away. He rips the earbuds from his head and swivels around to face the thing that has touched him.

It is Wade Wilson.

With a perfectly healthy head.

Peter cries out again, scrambling away to the other end of the car. The man has his head poking out of a lone (large) box that Peter remembers putting in the trunk, wondering what could possibly be inside (it was very heavy; he needed Steve’s help). Well, now he knows.

“Y-you…!?!???!”

“Kid! Hi! Are your dads gone yet?” Deadpool peeks into the front seat, notes their absence, then leaps clear out of his box besides Peter and moans loudly. “Thank the fucking _Lord!!_ I thought I was gonna die in there, you wouldn’t even know.” 

“H-how… _how_ … I… _when…?!”_

“You look pale. You ok? Carsick? Sick sick? Tell me, kid. Talk to me. Fucking hell! Am I insane yet? I’m pretty sure I went insane in that fucking hellhole. God _dammit._ Happy Canada Day, by the way!”

Peter stutters some more, aboot to say something when Wade leaps up, shoves the door open, saying over one shoulder, “Holy fuck I need to pee. Don’t leave without me!” and departs, running wildly for the nearest public establishment.

Peter is left shocked and very confused.

What the actual hell.

Maybe he’s dreaming. Or going insane himself. Or perhaps this is the ghost of Wade come back to haunt him. Maybe he won't come back. An illusion? Mirage? _Something that isn’t actually Deadpool?_

Because Deadpool’s dead! Peter witnessed his suicide! He _saw_ the guy blast himself away with a gun! He _saw it!_ _He saw it_.

Then how is Wade Wilson alive? He shouldn’t be. Why is he? How is he? When did he even get in the _trunk?! Why_ is he in the trunk?! Was he really sitting in that box for eight hours straight?! How is he not dead?! 

So many questions left unanswered.

Peter really cannot hide Wade in the Canadian Rockies. The guy _is_ Canadian, right? Doesn’t he have some house somewhere? A hideout? Why is he _coming_ _with Peter and his family?! WHY!?_

Just then Steve and Tony return, with the promised French fries, which Peter takes silently, still looking out the door Wade left out of and anxiously awaiting his arrival.

He could just let his parents leave without him. All his problems would be solved then, right?

Though, Peter hesitates.

“Hey, Pete, close that door, would you?”

“W-wait…”

  He does not _want_ to leave Wade behind. That’s just… mean. And Wade is trusting that Peter will not leave without him, and Peter cannot really break his trust and leave him after twice the guy’s let Peter off the hook from the police _by_ letting him run away. The boy glances at the box sympathetically. Has he really been sitting there the whole time?

“What is it?”

“Wh-where are we?” Peter asks, stalling, keeping the door open. He will not let Wade back in that stupid box.

“Somewhere in Nevada,” Tony answers, now the one at the wheel. Steve is looking back at Peter, concerned.

“Are you ok, Peter?”

“Yeah, I’m… fine. Fine. Just… wait a second…” 

His parents glance at each other. “Do you need to use the bathroom? Go, if you do.” 

“N-no… I…”

_Wade hurry up hurry up hurry up hurry up HURRY UP_

And then there he is, jogging back, looking very pleased with himself, earning strange looks from all he passes; a few point at the swords and whisper amongst each other.

Peter swallows.

“One second.” He beckons as ferociously as he can without his dads noticing, mouthing a very frantic “hurry up”.

“Peter…?” Steve cranes his neck around to see what his son is doing. His son does not appreciate this movement, and, in an act of desperation, points out the front window, shouting a loud “OH LOOK POPS IT’S UNCLE SAM” just as Wade (epically) dives headfirst into the car on the floor by Peter’s feet. Both Tony and Steve are distracted (somehow). The boy slams the door shut, topples on top of the man, dragging along a blanket he has retrieved from Steve’s duffel bag and draping it over himself, as he is not nearly wide enough to completely cover Deadpool’s very large self.

“Where?” Steve asks, and Tony chuckles, looking back.

“C’mon. Stop encouraging h… What in the Jesus are you doing?”

“Uh,” says Peter, awkwardly, feeling Wade laughing hysterically under him and kicking the man’s leg indignantly because it is causing him to bounce up and down (which is very conspicuous). “I… sleeping. I’m tired.” 

“Why don’t you sleep on the seat?”

“Where?” Steve asks again.

“I, uh. I’m… it’s comfortable down here.” Peter bounces again and, again, kicks. “Just let me, ok? I’ll get up later.”

“Oh, you’d better,” mutters Deadpool. Another kick. “Ow.”

“Was that you?” Tony looks suspicious now, and Peter winces.

“Uh, yeah. I, uh… hit myself. On Pops’ chair. It hurt. A lot. Ow. Haha.” 

“You okay?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s fine. I think I’m good now. You can start driving.” 

“Where, bud?” Steve finally turns around, observes his son’s sorry state, and blinks. Peter feels like a complete idiot, and wonders, really, if this is worth it. It probably isn’t. Wade is _still_ laughing.

“Uh. Guess I was just seeing things. Sorry, Pops. You can continue on now.” 

“I think he’s sick,” Tony muses out loud. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, Dad. Fine. If I sleep I’ll probably get better, right?” He closes his eyes. “Look. I’m sleeping. Just start driving, ok?”

Tony starts driving. Steve stares for a few more painfully long minutes before eventually turning around.

Peter bites his lip angrily, giving one final kick to Wade’s calves before lying still, not really knowing what to do now. Should he get up? Should he stay? Wade is admittedly warm, except that Peter is _hot enough as it is_ , especially with this stupid insolation blanket atop both of them.

Wade whispers something Peter does not hear. The boy awkwardly flips over so his belly is on Wade’s back and his mouth closer to the man’s ear.

“What?”

“Ooh. Getting kinky, are we?”

“No. What the hell are you doing here?” Peter makes sure his dads are conversing loudly as he talks, very quietly.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Logan told me to get out of his sight, so I did.”

“Into my car.”

“Correction!” 

“Sh!”

  “Correction,” he repeats, quieter. “Into that box. There was a bunch of stuff in it that I dumped out first, though. Hope it was nothing important.”

“W-Wade?!” 

“Yay! Are we on first-name basis yet?”

“Wh… you… you’re supposed to be dead!” 

This can refer to either Peter or Spiderman’s situations. In this case, Peter’s fits better, of course.

“Oh, yeah, that. No need to dwell on it, kid! Nice to know you care, though.”

“Your back was broken!”

_And your head was blasted open._

“And you’re lying on it. Am I complaining? Nope! That’s ‘cause I’m totally fine. Stop worrying!”

“Keep it down!” Peter pulls the blanket over his head.

“Hey, uh, who are you talking to?”

“Myself. Go back to arguing with Dad, please.”

“I never knew you had two dads.”

“Oh, I wonder why. It’s not because we’re practically strangers to each other, is it?”

“Pe-?”

“Sh. Pops. Sleeping, remember? Sh.”

“Are... you okay?”

“FINE! I mean, er, fine. I’m fine.” 

Wade snickers.

“You can tell me if something’s wrong, you know.”

“Stop bothering him, Cap. He’s fine if he says he’s fine.”

  “Thank you, Dad.” 

“Your family is hilarious.”

  “Shut up, Wade,” Peter says without thinking, and immediately regrets it.

“Say, Spidey used that too. Why is it that once you all start using my first name, you feel the need to tell me to shut up all the time?”

“Because you talk too much.” 

“Only when I’m awake!”

Peter does not answer this, and sighs instead.

“You know, when I imagined this happening, I vaguely remember myself being on top, not the other way around.”

Peter lets out an actual noise of disgust, and rolls off Wade, leaving the blanket on. He climbs back onto the seat, then drops the duffel bag on the man angrily.

“Nice to see you sleeping on cushions again,” says Tony.

“Yeah. Floor’s uncomfortable. Sorry. I’ll shut up now.” 

“Please,” giggles the lump on the floor, so only Peter can hear. Peter promptly kicks it.

“You okay? Really.” 

“Yes, Pops. Stop worrying. Please. I’ll go to sleep here, alright? Focus on driving. Dad might… mess up.” 

“Hey,” Tony protests, eyes on the road dutifully.

Peter sticks plugs in his ears, pushes play on his phone’s screen, and stretches out normally in the backseat. The duffel bag moves slightly.

Fifteen minutes later a hand reaches up, takes one of Peter’s buds, and listens along.

“What is this trash?”

“Shut up, Wade,” Peter mumbles, but lets the man have it. “Happy Canada Day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH LOOK GUYS IT'S UNCLE SAM!
> 
> Hehe.
> 
> This was a really fun chapter to write ;D. And a little note: the next two chapters are the start of more shippable moments between our two favorite dorks. It's the chapters I've been waiting to write for some time now. 
> 
> LET THE SPIDEYPOOL BEGIN!


	10. the Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter decides to go for a relaxing walk in the mountains of the Canadian Rockies. Needless to say, he gets lost with the help of yours truly (not Noah, you sillies, me! Deadpool).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, we've finally reached the Chapter Ten mark! Congratulations, me, for actually getting it up to here, and to you all, for actually reading my crap. I applaud you and give you all virtual hugs (and cookies).
> 
> This is a long chapter, by the way. Enjoy it ;3
> 
> Disclaimer: none of the songs/lyrics belong to me. All credit goes to the said singers/bands. Also The Outsiders and all of its characters belongs to S. E. Hinton.

The tenth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on July 4; Independence Day.

* * *

 

He hasn't seen Deadpool since they arrived in Canada (after a very long drive in which Wade went insane from boredom and was forced to endure scolding breaks from Peter when his dads left the car at rest stops); as soon as they stopped and Peter opened the door, like a restless dog, Wade had leapt out and bounded away into the woods without even a simple goodbye. Peter had watched him go helplessly.

“Happy birthday, Captain,” says Clint Barton, patting Steve on the shoulder as he passes. It is around nine in the morning, still early, and only a few people are up (this includes Steve himself, the mentioned Clint, and Natasha Romanoff).

“Oh, thank you,” Steve answers, humbly, as he makes pancakes. “But, really, we should be celebrating America, not me.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s your fucking _birthday_ , man. Why are you even making _us_ breakfast?”

Peter listens from the couch, where he lies on his back reading some Ernest Hemingway book he’d found in a shelf in his room. He’s read it already, but this was a good one.

“Oh, no, no, Barton,” Natasha scolds, playfully. She is in a good mood, always a nice sight for everyone. “Steve doesn’t tolerate the dreaded F-word, remember?”

“Really?” Peter’s father sighs, though the boy can sense the smile in his tone. _“Really?”_  

“Hey, Pete,” Clint greets, strolling casually into the room, an apple in hand. He plops into an armchair near Peter’s couch.

“Hi. Good morning, Mr Barton.” 

“What’s with the formalities? The last time we talked you were callin’ me Uncle Clint like nobody’s business.”

“With all due respect, _Uncle Clint_ , the last time we talked was over three years ago.”

“There you go! You’ll get it.”

“Stop harassing the children,” says Natasha. Peter smiles politely at her.

“Good morning.”

“Hi.” She sits on the arm of Clint’s chair. “You’re up early.” 

“It’s not _that_ early.” 

“That’s a good attitude. Now if only we could replace Mr Barton here with you…”

“Hey now,” Clint protests. “Say, Pete, how’s the web-slinging going? Any better than last time? Ha, Nat, you remember last time when he accidentally stuck your hand to the wall? HA! Your face!” 

“Yes, I remember,” Natasha says sourly. Peter cringes.

“Sorry about that… I mean, I-“

“Yeah, it’s fine. You didn’t mean to.” 

Clint winks at Peter, because it was he who’d told the boy to carry out the actions he had. “Here. Look at this apple I’m eating. You want this apple. You love this apple. It's a very pretty apple. You want to eat it. You want to-“

Before he can finish, Peter has the fruit triumphantly in his hand, sheepishly grins, and tosses it back. Clint hoots, and slaps his knee. Natasha catches it instead.

“Ha! Holy hell that’s amazing. Never gets old. Hey, do that thing where you do the thing on the ceiling and just… the ceiling. _That’s_ awesome. Better than whatever the fuck _I_ can do.”

Peter hesitates, gaging his uncle-not-uncle’s hopeful expression, and sighs quietly, but, just to please him, shoots a web up to the wooden panels above, flinging himself upwards to them, then grabbing on so he sticks.

Clint laughs, and claps, impressed. Natasha rolls her eyes.

“BARTON!” Steve calls from the kitchen. “Stop harassing my son!”

“Yeah, _Barton_ ,” the redheaded woman snickers, nudging him. “Respect your leader and his heir.” 

Peter finds a dirty spot up on the ceiling and wipes it off with his sleeve.

“Ok, now do the thing where you lower yourself.”

Peter does, upside down, with his legs bent over him. He flips over and lands on his feet upon reaching the floor, almost smashing into a very displeased god named Loki Laufeyson.

“You can still do all these things, just better!”

“Very impressive,” Loki sneers.

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes guiltily, to which the god sniffs, and continues down the hallway to the bathroom.

“Tell the shorter of your fathers that his bathing sessions exceed even my brother’s in length.” 

“Ok,” Peter agrees, hurrying away to the stairs to go do this. Clint waves him back.

“Don’t listen to the guy. He’s not as scary as he thinks he is.”

Peter glances back at the stairs doubtfully. Natasha shakes her head at him.

The boy always feels a little left out, being the youngest one here, all the time. None of the other Avengers or Loki have any children for Peter to socialize with.

“Happy birthday, Pops,” the boy says to his cooking father, walking over and hugging him from the side briefly. “And happy Independence Day.”

Steve beams. “Thanks, Pete.”

“You want me to take over? I feel bad making your cook, this being your birthday and all…”

“Oh, no. I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”

“Come on, Pops. I’m good at pancakes.” 

Steve hesitates, then reluctantly hands the spatula to his son. “You can do the bacon ok?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Pops.”

“I should be thanking you.”

Peter makes perfectly golden pancakes and slightly burnt bacon, which everyone eats with fresh Canadian maple syrup.

“Hey, Dad,” he asks Tony after breakfast, after he’s volunteered to clean up. Everyone else is in the living room.

“Hm?”

“After I clean up, can I go take a walk? You know, in the woods.”

Tony looks up, doubtful. “C’mon, Peter. Spend the day with your dad. He needs it. Celebrate with us. Can’t you go in the evening? Or just later in general?” 

Peter shrugs. “I guess so. What’re we doing today?”

Tony doesn’t answer, so Peter cleans quickly, retreats to his room, and continues reading Hemingway for the next hour or so. Uncle Thor barges in at two, asking the boy to explain what “LOL” means, considering everyone had been making fun of him with it for the past half hour. Peter tells him, jokingly, that it stands for “licking over-salted lips,” which, of course, Thor takes to be something sexual and runs away angrily before Peter can correct himself.

Then, at around two-thirty or three, the family calls the boy down and asks if he wants to go out shooting with them. Clint had suggested it, it being patriotic and all. Apparently there is a shooting range just down the mountain that the group can drive to easily.

“But aren’t guns not allowed in Canada?” Peter asks tentatively, to which everyone glances at each other amusedly.

“Sh,” Tony mutters, smirking. “We’re in the mountains. Nobody’ll ever know.” 

Peter is not impressed. “Uh, no, I… I’ll stay here. Take care of myself.” 

“You sure? You’ve never shot anything before, have you?” 

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we can’t have _that_ , now, can we?”

“He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to.” This is Bruce, from the back of the group.

“Y-yeah, um…” Peter blushes under everyone’s intense gazes. “I’m fine. I’ll… I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though.” 

“Oh, alright,” Steve says, slightly disappointed. “Well, if you’re not coming I don’t think I-“

“Nonononono, Pops, it’s _fine_. Go. It’s your birthday. And Independence Day. You’re… good. Fine. Everything’s fine.” 

“Yes, we heard that part already,” Loki mutters, looking out a window with an obviously bored expression on his delicate features. Everyone ignores him.

“If you say so…”

“C’mon, Cap, if he says he’s fine, he’s fine.”

“I will stay with the child,” Loki offers.

“No, Loki,” Thor urges loudly. “Come with us, and enlighten oneself in the art of Midgardian arms.” 

“No,” Loki snaps, scooting away from his brother.

“They can both stay,” Bruce says. “And _we’ll_ just go.”

This is clarified some few minutes later, and all of the Avengers depart for the range, gun cases and holsters toted.

Loki and Peter stand in awkward silence for a few moments, watching them depart. The former groans and falls over onto a couch, fiddling with some string hanging off the arm.

“Isn’t this lovely?”

“Um, yeah.” Peter has never been good with talking to people that aren’t Gwen or his parents. The stories he’s heard aboot Loki from everyone aren’t much helping either, in this case.

“Yes, yes,” Loki sighs, and lays his head back, closing his eyes. “Run off and carry out your childish actions.” 

Peter does that, backing up all the way to his room. He stares out the window at the trees’ fresh green leaves and needles, and admires the peaks of blue mountains in the distance. Maybe he’ll move to Canada once he gets out of the house. The boy definitely does not want to stay in California…

Though, out here, Spiderman will not exist. Peter does not like the idea of this.

But it is so much prettier and much more calming up in the cool northern mountains… This cabin is seated pleasantly on a hill, with a nearby lake for ice skating, if they ever came in the winter. Oh, the snow. Peter misses snow.

He wonders, briefly, where Wade Wilson could possibly be, out in these expansive woods. Perhaps he has run away, to his home somewhere else in Canada. This would be reasonable. Maybe Wade too has a cabin here.

The boy still cannot get over the fact that the man is not dead. He should be. The laws of life say so, and yet Deadpool continuously evades death and all things relating to it. It makes Peter uncomfortable.

Three very long hours later the shooting squad is still not back, and Peter is bored and slightly hungry.

He heads downstairs; Loki is not perched on a windowsill, reading.

“Good evening,” the god greets without looking up.

“Uh, hi.” Peter enters the kitchen, looks around a bit, eats a lone protein bar, then moves over to the front door.

“Mr Laufeyson?” he calls, not sure if this is an appropriate name to call him with.

Loki snorts. “Yes?” he asks back mockingly, fluttering his eyelashes. Peter swallows.

“C-can I go out? For a walk? In the woods? If they come back anytime soon tell them I went, ok?” 

Loki sighs. “Yes, yes, go on. Get lost, would you?”

“Um, yes, sir.” 

The god laughs condescendingly. Peter decides he does not much like Loki Laufeyson.

He exits the cabin quickly (after grabbing a sweatshirt, and another protein bar just in case), and speed-walks into the woods nearby. The cool evening air calms him, and, as he looks around, Peter can hear and see small bits of wildlife; rabbits, deer, birds, squirrels… It is all very pleasant. The boy lifts his nose and sniffs at the air, relishing its fresh, clean scent; it is nowhere near like this back in California. He sighs, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. There is a narrow trail the boy can follow; this is always good, considering Peter definitely does not know his way around these woods. He assumes he should just go a bit further, up the mountain a bit, then come back.

 _I’ll walk until seven,_ he tells himself. _Then I’ll go back._

Peter continues to do so, at a leisurely pace, Converses hitting the ground one after the other, over and over for the next fifteen minutes. He does not listen to music, run, or any other kind of thing _other_ than walking… he does not want to disturb the tranquil atmosphere of these beautiful woods.

The boy comes to a fork, and, like that Robert Frost poem suggests, takes the route that looks less traveled by; woodier, smaller trail… Peter is glad he is wearing long pants and sleeves. Deer ticks are abundant here, and he hates having to vigorously search for them all along his body (this was a common occurrence when the boy was younger).

A tiny trickle of a stream runs alongside the trail, heading back down the mountain from where Peter had came. He watches it, smiling softly to himself, and continues upwards. The trek totes a rocky terrain, with slopes upwards and is a little steep. The boy frequently has to step over or around boulders, climb tree roots, or leap streams without bridges. He makes sure to very purposefully _stay on_ _the trail._ Peter cannot find his way back without it.

Another intersection; he goes right.

Is it seven yet, perhaps?

Nope, only six forty-five. Still fifteen more minutes to relax in the cooling mountain air of Alberta…

Exactly two point five seconds later a face appears in front of Peter’s, upside down. This face happens to masked red with black patches over the eyes.

Of course we all know whom this might be.

“Heya!” says it, as Peter smashes into it with a yelp. “Whoa, slow down. I get it that I’m insanely hot and whatever, but first kiss? Now? As you had mentioned, we’ve only just-“

Peter punches the face with all the might he can muster, because one, Deadpool is hanging upside down by a piece of rope from a tree like how Spiderman does, and nobody is allowed to do that except Spiderman, and two, it’s _Wade Wilson_. How can Peter _not_ punch him? Their faces met in a most embarrassing manner, and he does not like being embarrassed.

Deadpool topples down from his rope with a thud.

“Oww,” he complains, rubbing his now-throbbing jawbone. “For such a skinny guy you can _hit.”_

“I’m not _skinny,”_ Peter snaps, stepping over the man on the ground and continuing on his way. Leave it to this loser to completely ruin the atmosphere Peter had had going. He can tell the animals and such have been scared away at this point, and the breeze doesn’t seem as cool anymore; more like cold. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, rubbing them together in the small warmth of the material.

Maybe he should turn back now.

“Hey, where’re you going?” Wade whines, quickly catching up, leaving his rope behind. “I want to come-“

“Away from you. Now leave me alone.” 

“You haven’t seen me for two days and this is how you greet me? I see how it is, then.”

“I do hope so.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that, guy!”

“Shut up, Wade.”

  “What is it with you and shutting me up? That’s not nice. Don’t they teach you manners in high school?” 

Peter gives Deadpool a sideways glare. “More like kindergarten. But I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about it, hm?” “It” being school.

Wade looks very proud of himself. “Dropped out when I was your age,” he tells Peter happily. “In tenth grade. Ran away to work with the X’s.”

Peter does not ask who the X’s are and does not ask. “Oh. Ok.” He isn’t quite sure whether he feels bad or not for asking. “Um…”

“So! Enough aboot that. Don’tcha wanna hear all aboot my survival in the woods by myself? Ha! Did I tell you that I had to shit in a bush? A _bush!”_

Peter is not impressed. “Ok,” he says.

“I pissed in bushes too. Holy fuck I’m hungry. You happen to have any food on you? Food. I haven’t _eaten_ in so long, you wouldn’t even understand. I drank stream water. I don’t think that’s healthy. Is that healthy?”

Before Peter can answer “no”, Wade continues.

“You’re a smart kid, right? What are those things that look like blueberries with spikes for hats? Are they edible? ‘Cause I ate what must’ve been a _bush_ of the stuff. Damn they were good. I didn’t die so I think I’m fine, right?”

“Saskato-“

“Oh, baby! Did you know I saw a bear? It was the size of my fucking _dick_. It tried to eat me. Ha! It failed. Got my arm though!” He laughs like this is all good. “I killed it, kid. You need a bear carcass? A bearskin rug, perhaps? Meat? Flesh? Claws? Teeth? Eyes? Penis? At least I think it was a dude. Must’ve been. Holy fuck that thing was huge. You wanna see it? It think it’s over that way somewhere. Bet _you’ve_ never seen a bear before, have ya? You’re a city kid, of course you haven’t. Say, why’re you out here all alone? There might be more bears that’re hungry, and you don’t even have a fucking gun or anything, what do you think you’re _doing?_ Haha, don’t worry, I’ll protect you. Wouldn’t want that cute little face getting mauled up, would we? Believe me, kid, having a face like mine isn’t fun. I know you might think that it’s all cool and badass to have all these scars but have you _seen_ how many of ‘em I’ve got?! It’s horrible, and you being so young and fucking _young_ it’d ruin all the things you’ve ever wa-“ 

Peter punches him again.

“Do you _ever_ shut up?!” he snarls, marching on. Wade follows.

“Sometimes. You want me to?”

“Yes, _please-“_

“HA! Just kidding. You’re funny, kid.” 

Peter mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”

“None of your _business,”_ he snaps, resisting another punch; the boy settles with pushing Deadpool into a thorny bush they happen to be passing instead.

 _You’re supposed to be dead_ , Peter thinks, biting his lip.

“Hey!” 

“What.”

“There’s more berries in here!”

“Ok.”

“Should I eat them?”

“NO! Don’t be a fucking idiot!”

Peter hears the rustling of leaves and Wade appears by his side, apparently out of nowhere. Thorns embed themselves all over his body, unnoticed by the man. Peter eyes them, and Wade glances down at himself.

“Aw, dammit. Look what you’ve done.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, yeah. Ugh. Help me pluck them out, would you?” Deadpool begins to, starting with his left arm.

Peter does not move, but takes a step closer. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to push you into _that_ bush.” This is a lie, but of course Wade doesn’t need to know this.

“It’s fine. I’m just fucking impressed that you _can_ push me at all. Like I said, for such a skinny kid…-“

“I know.”

“Yeah. Ha! What do you do? Lift? Push-ups?”

“I, uh… sure.” _No, I actually hang from buildings in Los Angeles and beat up criminals._

He quickly changes the subject. “Do they… hurt?”

“Nah. It’ll take a lot more to hurt me, kid. I don’t suggest you try.” Wade grins. “Are you gonna help or not?”

Peter swallows and gingerly puts his fingers around a thorn in the man’s shoulder, and plucks it out.

“OW!”

“Ah! Sorry!” 

“Haha! Just kidding.” Deadpool hoots. “Holy hell you’re hilarious.” Peter bristles, and viciously begins taking out the other ones, glaring.

“That wasn’t funny.” 

“Sure it was! Lighten up a little. Understand the humor.”

Peter chucks a handful of the thorns into the bushes, then starts on Wade’s back. “You’re a jerk.” 

“Thanks, sweetie. You too.”

“Don’t call me that!” 

“What, _sweetie?_ Is that it, sweetie? Yes, sweetie, get the one just below my shoulder blade, would you?”

Peter does not. “Don’t _call_ me that.”

“Well, it’s not like I have your _name!”_

“And you’re not getting it anytime soon.”

“Then sweetie it is. Did you get the one below my shoulder blade?”

“No!”

“Would you?”

“No.”

“Aw, sweetie, don’t be like that! You know you love me!” *kawaii face over one shoulder*

“The opposite, I would say.”

“Ok, so if I can’t call you sweetie, what _can_ I call you?”

“How about not calling me at all?”

“How aboot… Noah?”

“Noah?”

Noah. Really, Wade.

“Yeah, sure! I mean, it’s getting kinda annoying, using ‘kid’ all the time.”

“Where’d _Noah_ come from?”

“He was my friend in an alternate universe. Oh, the adventures we had! I carried him because he was too slow.” 

Peter stares in utter disbelief. “What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

“Eh, you wouldn’t understand. Hey, are you done back there?”

“No.” Peter continues plucking thorns, purposefully missing the one under the shoulder blade; he notices for the first time a small dip in the back of Deadpool’s mask and find himself staring at it. Wade waits for him to finish.

“Are there any on my ass?”

Peter looks. “Yeah.”

“Can you get them?”

“No.”

“Come on!” 

“No! Get them yourself.” 

“Ok, you know what? I’ll bend over and get the ones on my legs that I can see, and you get easy access to the butt. It’ll be fun!” He chuckles. “Ha. Butt.”

“No.” 

“Noah!”

“My name is not _Noah!”_

“Hehe! This is just like the time Matt met that girl. She called him Mike, you know that? Oh, I shipped them so much!” Wade swoons. “Really, though, Matt and Mike are almost identical. What letter does your name start with?”

“You’re not getting my name! At all!”

“Why not? Do you really hate me _that_ much?” 

“Kind of!”

“At least help a guy out and get the thorns outta his ass. Please?”

“No!” 

“Pretty please?”

_“No.”_

“Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Shut up, Wade.”

“Sweetie!”

  “Wade!”

“Wade Wade Wade Wade.”

“Yes, Wade! Shut up!”

“You know you like it.” 

“Like _what?”_

Deadpool’s hips shake slightly, and a spandex-ed ass is promptly shoved into Peter’s stomach as Wade throws his upper body to the ground.

“That!”

“I actually don’t,” Peter snaps, taking a gazillion steps backwards. “Get your… rear out of my face.”

“Aw, sweetie. It’s just an ass. You’ve got one too!” Wade sighs. “Come on. Just the thorns. That’s it! I’m not going to make you fuck me from behind or anything.” 

Peter flushes, and wishes he hadn’t. “Sh-shut up.”

“Look. I’m getting the stuff off my legs. Start. Go. Pluck.”

Peter swallows loudly, reaches forward, and takes one. Deadpool’s face peers at him from behind his legs.

“Faster, please.” He giggles. “Oh, the context!”

“Shut up!” the boy practically yelps, shivering slightly as a cold draft of wind wafts past his face. He quickly collects a handful of thorns.

Suddenly, Wade barks, “Freeze!” 

Peter freezes, hand still hovering over the man’s rear end. “Wh-what is it?” He glances around.

“Pose!” 

“Pose?” 

“Don’t move. Smile. Grin. Touch my ass.” Deadpool is looking in a direction that Peter stares into; nothing much is there. “C’mon, kid.”

“What are we doing?”

“Posing.” Wade flashes a peace sign, sticking two fingers up into the air, cocking his head, and winking. Peter is very confused, and his scalp is tingling uncertainly. 

“What the hell, Wade?”

“Are you posing?”

“No… Why are we doing this?”

Wade is bent over, one hand steadying himself on the ground, the other hovering by his face, in the same position mentioned. His spandex-ed ass prods into Peter’s stomach, still, which is slightly leant backwards, one foot behind the boy, steadying himself. One hand rests on the behind in front of him, and the other holds a handful of thorns. His expression is one of extreme shock and confusion, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. It is a strange sight, certainly, them two, sitting directly in the middle of a woody trail; a squirrel runs by Wade’s face. He does not meove.

“Wade.”

“Sh. Keep posing.” 

“Wh-who are… we posing for, exactly?”

Deadpool grins. “Heh. The reader, of course.” He raises his peace sign hand. “Hey, Reader! You got your mental image yet?” 

Peter stares in complete surprise, head swiveling around. “Wh- _who?_ What _reader?_ Who are you…-“ 

“This _is_ the kind of stuff they like, kid. You wouldn’t get it.”

Peter really doesn’t. He hurriedly gathers all the remaining thorns. “Ok. Are we done here?” He steps backwards.

Wade snickers. “They like that too.” He rights himself, standing up straight. 

Peter feels his face warm, and awkwardly combs his hair back with his fingers, tossing the thorns into a bush. “Yeah, yeah, w-whatever.” He begins to walk again; Wade follows. Of course.

“So, kid.”

“Hm?”

“What’re you out here for?”

Peter looks around, and shrugs. “Walking. Not really anything.” He pauses, then quickly talks again so Wade will not launch into another whole spree in which he spews random sentences and therefore annoys everyone in the area greatly. The boy clears his throat. “Um. Why… why did you follow me?”

“Follow you? Ha, stop flattering yourself. You just came around! I thought I’d pop down and say hi. You looked so calm, too, hehe, it was funny. You’re a funny kid, you know that, right?” 

“Uh, y-yeah. Sure.” Peter wrings his hands inside his pockets. “And I didn’t mean just now. I meant, um, in the car. Why’d you-“

“OH, THAT! I told ya, didn’t I? Logan told me to get out of his sight, so I did!”

“Into a box…?”

“Yup! Has anyone been missing the shit that was inside of it? Bunch of metal stuff. Mechanical smart-looking things.”

Peter stiffens. “Uh, yeah. That’s me and my dad’s. It’s… it’s fine, though.” Then, offended, mutters, “It’s not shit.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.”

Peter turns right, and Wade follows. He climbs over a fallen tree. Wade follows.

This goes on for quite a long time, a duration in which the man talks enthusiastically aboot chimichangas, tacos, and fanfiction.net. Peter pretends to listen, and carefully puts music into his ears; the calmness of the forests are now gone (completely), so why not?

“HEY! YOU! KID!!!” This is screamed perhaps five minutes later, once Deadpool realizes that no one is actually listening to him. One bud is ripped out of Peter’s ear (the left one), and Wade says, “You’re so rude!” 

Peter sighs. “Sorry. I just particularly don’t… don’t like hearing about… whatever you were talking about?”

“Buffalo.” 

“Yeah. Um, that.” 

The earbud is brought up to Wade’s face, and he listens for a second before asking, “What _is_ this? I didn’t hear it in the car.” 

Peter hesitates, then mumbles, “Uh, Three Days Grace. Pain. That’s the, um, song. Pain.”

 

 

_‘Pain, without love_

_Pain, can’t get enough_

_Pain, like it rough_

_‘Cuz I’d rather have pain than nothing at all…’_

 

 

“What are you, like, emo or something?” Deadpool chuckles. He is still holding the music up to his ear. “It’s alright, sweetie… if you’re having any problems with your life, just know I’m here for you.” 

Peter gives him a disgusted look. “What are you suggesting? I’m not… emo. I’m fine. I just like this type of music.” He slaps Wade’s hand away from his pocket. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Getting your phone. I’m switching the song.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like this one! Is that illegal?”

“Maybe, considering this _is my_ phone.” Though, the boy allows the taller creation to take the mobile device. “Don’t look at my stuff.” He watches closely to make sure Wade doesn’t, waving a gnat away from his face instead of grabbing it. The man scrolls through Peter’s playlist, still listening to the current song.

“What do you do with your life,” he sighs, looking through all the bands he apparently either doesn’t know or like (most likely the former), looking a bit disappointed. "Your generation is so... _weak_." 

Then, Wade squeals, making the boy jump.

“Holy hell,” Peter mutters. “Don’t _do_ that.”

“You listen to Billy Joel?”

“Uh. Sometimes? Only certain songs, though.”

“Ah, those were the good days. Heh, maybe you're not so bad after all.”

“Were you even alive then?”

Wade looks at him. “Dude, it was only the eighties. It wasn’t that long ago.” Peter cracks a smile.

“I know. I was joking.”

Deadpool taps the screen to play _We Didn’t Start the Fire_ (this is how Peter discovered Joel; Mr Krautheimer had played this in class at some point). “Oh. Very funny.” He glances sideways at the boy next to him, smirking.

“What can I say? I’m a ‘funny kid’, aren’t I?”

Wade snickers, and ruffles Peter’s hair; the boy smacks the gloved hand away.

“Can I _keep_ you?”

“No.”

“Aw, come on.”

“Shut up.” He pauses. “Wade.” Said man beams, bopping his head to the song playing.

“You wanna see something, kid?”

Peter looks at him quizzically; “What?”

“It’s cool, trust me, if you’ve got any taste. You got time?” 

Out of curiosity, Peter, without thinking, answers, “Sure.” 

It is half past seven.

* * *

 

And now, it is eight.

“I’m slightly convinced that you’re leading me somewhere incredibly dangerous and not at all cool,” Peter mutters, cold no longer; he has been hiking upwards with Wade for the past thirty minutes, and it is beginning to get tedious.

“Aw, cheer up, kid! We’re almost there, don't worry. Just through these leaves…”

Peter follows the man through ‘these leaves’, really and truly hoping (though mostly praying) that this little adventure isn’t going to get his ass kicked/killed/raped/whatever else the hell Deadpool has in mind. They seem to have been heading up the mountain; not a good sign. Perhaps Wade will push him off it.

“Are we there yet?” the boy pants, stopping to rest against a tree, sending all the glares he can at the Wade Wilson ahead of him, which looks back.

“Yeah, almost. Hurry up, would you?” He glances at a watch that isn’t there. “Now’s the perfect time for what I’m bringing you to.”

Peter doesn’t comment on how incredibly creepy this sounds.

The boy catches a glimpse of the sky through the leaves; red and pink smash together, creating a perfect magenta-like shade. He sees mountain peaks in the distance, which, in Peter’s opinion, is one of the most beautiful things…-

Wade snatches him away. “Ah ah ah! No peeking, you sly doge!” 

Peter stumbles after him, a hand now clamped over one bicep firmly. “Oh. You dragged me up here to see the sunset, didn’t you? Very… um.”

“Romantic? Gay? Nothing gold can stay? You betcha, Pony.” 

“Why am _I_ Ponyboy?” Peter decides not to comment on the first two adjectives.

“Well, obviously, because I’m Dally.”

“Isn’t the sunset thing with _Johnny_ and Pony?”

“Oh. Is it? I dunno. I haven’t read it in a while.”

“Well, neither have I.” Peter had read _The Outsiders_ back in, what, seventh grade? Something like that. “But I still remember the basic idea of it.”

“You see the movie?”

“…No?”

“Oh. You kinda remind me of Pony.” 

“Th-thanks?”

“Anytime. Hey, can I call you Ponyboy?”

“No.”

“Well, you won’t give me your _actual_ name, or anything _related_ to your actual name, so…” Wade steps over a large root, dragging Peter along inconsiderately. The boy manages to dodge all the rocks and branches and whatever else comes his way.

“Are we there _yet?”_

“Geez, patience, Pony.”

“Shut up, _Johnny.”_

“I’m Dally, remember?”

“No you’re not.”

Peter sees another sliver of scenery through the trees, though only for half a second before Deadpool takes him away again.

Thirty seconds later the two emerge from the dense brush onto a rocky outcrop facing west.

Peter can tell it is facing west because the two are looking at the sunset.

The _sunset._

The sunset, which is, as the boy had seen, red and pink and purple and yellow and orange and _whatever_ _else,_ resting just above a mountain peak in the distance. The glowing ball of fire sits peacefully, slowly disappearing over the horizon. The line of night and stars just almost invades, farther east, the night army pushing the day back until the next.

 _Give us these few hours,_ it says. _You always get the larger chunk of the 24._

Twenty-four being hours, of course.

The two beings, so small in the mist of towering giants, are so high up.

Peter loves it.

The expansive valley below is blanketed with trees, all green to their very fullest. Eagles and hawks swoop over them, sometimes close enough so that Peter can actually _see_ their eyes; he curses himself a thousand times over for not bringing his camera.

“Whoa,” the boy breathes, simply. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

The setting sun waves goodbye, and Peter hardly feels the cold air whisper past his ear, which, now, is stripped of the earbuds. Why should music invade this moment, right now? It truly is… Peter cannot explain it.

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Wade looks very proud of himself, hands on hips, looking out over the world. “I found it once when chasing this squirrel. Damn thing wouldn't let me _kill_ it.”

“I wouldn’t think that _you_ …” Peter trails off, and Deadpool smirks.

“That I…? That I what?” His tone is challenging. “That I would find this absolutely gorgeous? Ha, funny. Even _I_ have an eye for pretty scenery. I’m honestly glad _you_ do, kid, being your age and all.” 

“Being young doesn’t make people uncultured or anything, you know.”

“No, not uncultured, just… Eh. Forget it.” Peter gives the talking man a look as he does, retrieves the protein bar out of his pocket, opens it and rips it in half, then hands the larger piece to Wade. He takes it gratefully, sending Peter a cheerful grin through the mask.

The two stand in unison for a few more moments, admiring the scene and chewing, the breathing of both humans steady and calm; there is nothing more than such than this certain moment, this one exact time and place and _where they are_ , Peter thinks. He watches the fire slowly vanish, taking its stew of colors with it, then waits for the stars and moon to take over the sky, as it becomes night.

Nothing gold can stay. Ha. References.

Soon, within a few minutes, it is dark. Soon, within a few minutes, it is cold. It is night.

_Night._

Like a sputtering lightbulb, Peter’s goes out suddenly, without warning, and he startles, last bite of protein falling to the rock below his feet. Wade glances over.

“Oh, crap,” the boy is muttering over and over, hands fumbling for the phone in his pocket. “Crap crap crap _crap_ holy shit this is bad oh my god fucking hell-“

“Whoa whoa whoa. Calm down.” 

Peter drops his phone which he has finally managed to get ahold of, catches it, gets his reflexes complimented, checks the time, and curses again.

Peter curses because it is eight forty.

A whole hour and forty minutes has past since he was _supposed_ to head home.

“Oh, Jesus _Christ_ ,” says he, in utter distress. Peter looks at Wade, knows it is not his fault, but blames him anyway; it feels good to. “This is… this is your fault!” 

“Me? You mad bruh?”

“N-no! Yes! Yes, I am mad!”

“This was a really sudden change in mood. Hm.”

“W-Wade! Why the hell did you take me here?!” The boy turns, looks into the dense brush, shivers, and begins to head back.

“What the actual fuck did I do?!”

“Holy shit. Holy shit.”

“Holy balls, for all I know. Which I _don’t_ , FYI. Please enlighten me, dear child.”

Wade his following Peter again, and the boy isn’t quite sure if this is good or not. Perhaps the man knows his way around better? Oh god, so many turns THAT PETER DOES NOT KNOW WHICH WAY THEY WENT HOLY FUCK WHY IS LIFE SO HARD

“We’re lost.” 

Deadpool looks around, and chuckles. “Yes we are. It’s too dark to really see anything, isn't it?”

“That’s not _good_ , Wade!”

“Oh. Why not?”

“Because I… you realize I… I’m… _I have a family?_ And a cabin? And a life? And a… and a fucking bed?!” 

“Are you suggesting that I don’t have any of those things? That’s not very nice. I _have_ a bed.”

“I was supposed to be getting back over an hour ago.”

“Ah ha, that’s why you’re so stressed.”

“Oh, you think?!” Peter plods through the darkness, branches scraping at his clothes, reaching for his arms and legs and face and whatever else. He flips his hood up to conserve heat. Jesus it gets cold fast.

Isn’t it supposed to be _summer?!_

“I’ll help you attempt to navigate, if that means anything,” Wade offers offhandedly.

“Unless you know the way back exactly, then no. It doesn’t.”

“I know _stuff_. Just follow the trail, kid. It’s not that hard.”

“We made _turns_. At _forks.”_

“Turn left at the next one?”

“Oh, that sounds very sure.”

“Stop being a dick! I’m trying to help!”

“Well, I don’t _need_ your epically _unhelpful_ help, alright?” 

“Fine then. You’re on your own, if I’m so ‘epically unhelpful’.”

“Thank you.”

The next time Peter glances backwards, Wade is gone.

Fifteen minutes later he is even more lost than he was before.

Not to mention _cold._

His phone isn’t working (quite obviously; service isn’t exactly abundant in the fucking mountains), his protein bar has been eaten, and the night is still young. Still young and very dark.

“Shit,” Peter announces to the woods, which rustle and murmur back at him.

He continues walking, and wonders if anyone is looking for him yet. Perhaps they can find him before he gets back. Doesn’t Tony have a tracker or something?

Peter turns his phone off to conserve battery just in case he needs a flashlight or anything later. Spider sense goes off; he swivels, clenches his hands into fists, and forces himself to calm down.

The boy treks through the forest, down the steep slope carefully (and sideways. It is always safe to head downwards sideways) and always watching where he puts his feet. He assumes if he can just make it to the base of the mountain he can call someone and they can come get him.

This seems doubtful, however. How long had he and Wade been walking before?

Peter comes to a fork, stops, and stares. He’d turned left at the last one like Wade had said, but now… what the hell happens now?!

Peter goes right just to switch things up.

Another quarter of an hour passes.

Peter is absolutely shivering by this point. His hands are rubbing against each other inside his pocket, and he jogs slightly to keep warm, hood up and head down. He bundles himself to himself, _to himself as_ _much as he can_ , and wishes for hot coco.

Peter Stark really wants hot coco.

“You cold?” 

Peter punches the face. It is hanging upside down, again, and, again, falls from the tree.

“Jesus, Pony!”

“Stop that,” Peter mutters, waiting for the man to stand before continuing on. Of course he will not admit this, but he is overly glad to see Wade; it is another being, another person, in general. Just for company. The woods all alone in the dark and cold gets very lonely, and slightly frightening. “Why were you following me?”

“You think I’d leave _you_ out _here_ without _me?_ Ha! Good one.”

“But you left.”

“Objection! I fled to the trees, and watched you from above. Like Spiderman! Oh, how proud Senpai would be!” 

There it is again, that word. “Hm. Ok. I thought he was mean to you.”

“He is! He’s just tsundere, is all.” Pause. “You otaku?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Apparently not, then.” Wade sighs. Peter shivers. “If I had a jacket I would give it to you,” he offers.

“Wh-huh? Jacket? Oh, uhm, no. I’m… good. I’m fine. Just… Cold.” Peter eyes the suit Wade adorns. “How are you not… dying? That thing must be pretty thin, right?”

“Well, yeah, sure, but I’m good. I don’t freeze, kid, trust me. You, on the other hand…” Deadpool’s head cocks, almost worriedly. “You might get hypothermia if you stay out too long.”

“It’s _July,”_ Peter mumbles, tensing and relaxing his muscles repeatedly to warm them up. “Why is it so…?”

“It _is_ Canada,” Wade says. “I’m surprised _you’re_ so surprised.” He claps a large hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Cheer up! At least it’s not winter, eh? You’re freezing, by the way.”

Peter looks at the hand. “You’re so _warm_ ,” he manages. “How are you so warm?” Wade gives the boy a questioning look.

“What are you implying…?” he asks, suggestively, and Peter resists the urge to punch him. Again.

“I’m not _implying_ anything, I’m just saying you’re warm.”

“I am a pretty hot dude, let’s be honest.”

“That was lame.”

“You know it wasn’t.”

“Except that it completely and totally was."

“Aw, I know you love me, sweetie.”

“Don’t call me _sweetie_ , ok? It’s… condescending.”

“Ooh, big vocab. Very smart.”

“Condescending isn’t a big word.”

“Sure it is.” The man steers Peter off the trail and into the brush.

“Um. What are you doing?”

“Taking you back! What else?”

“This… isn't the way back.” The boy tries to stop and turn around, but Wade stops him and pushes him forward, holding an arm out in front of Peter to shield his face from the branches and leaves and bugs that come flying his way every half a second. The boy lets him, even though dodging these things is not much of a problem. “Where are you going?”

“The river! Where else?”

Peter looks at him. “And where is this river of yours, exactly?” He understands why Deadpool thinks this way; follow the river’s direction of flow and make it back to the base of the mountain. The boy is slightly miffed that he didn’t think of this first.

“This way! Where else?”

“Yes, where else.”

“Where else?”

“Shut up, Wade.”

Wade snickers, continuing to push Peter through the trees and woody terrain, guiding him over logs and roots and other things.

“You know, most people use the trail,” Peter says.

“Well then, guess we’re not most people, are we?”

“I suppose not.”

“Hehe!”

“You do know that there’s ticks galore out here, right?”

“Yup. You’re wearing clothes, though, so I think you’re fine!”

  “If I get Alzheimer’s I’m blaming you, ok?”

“Yeah, sure, kid.”

The two approach the sound of a running river, which Peter cannot really see well in the dark. He hears it, and feels it as the cold water drenches both him and Wade’s ankles, then as it overcomes him, surrounding his body unpleasantly as they slip and fall.

Deadpool kicks Peter out of the water, screaming out a very loud “HOLY _FUCK_ THAT’S COLD”. He leaps to his feet, making noises and shaking himself off, a bit like a dog. Peter watches him, sopping wet, unsure of whether to be angry, amused, or plain depressed.

“Geez, I’m sorry, kid.” He sounds it. “Aw, _dammit!_ I slipped.”

“And b-b-b-brought m-me with you,” Peter mutters, shaking terribly as a draft of wind plunges the water into his very SOUL AND DEVOURS HIS MIND SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY UNTIL THERE IS NOTHING LEFT

“Dammit,” Wade repeats. “Fucking… dammit. Logan’ll murder me ten times over if a _kid_ dies on my watch.”

 _“Th-that’s_ w-what you’re worried about?!”

The man plods through the water, grabs Peter’s arm, and hoists him up off the ground. The boy sends a fist at Deadpool’s nose, making impact, then shoves him backwards back into the river, letting the man wash downstream for a few moments before he follows, waiting. Sure enough, Wade bursts out of the water like a playful dolphin, then falls back downwards. Peter laughs a little, picking up a jog to keep himself from freezing to death.

“You _jerk!”_ Wade calls as he swims, freestyle, upstream, head out of the water. “You big fat mean jerk!” Though, he sounds cheerful.

“You said you can’t freeze!” Peter yells back.

“I never said I could swim!” 

“I assumed! You’re apparently a superhero.”

 “Says who?”

“Says the news.”

“I’m on the news? AW YEAH, BABY!”

Peter rolls his eyes, and continues on, watching Wade and hugging himself tightly. Isn't it not safe to wear wet clothes in the cold? Something like that.

“Just follow the river, kid,” Deadpool says loudly, smashing into a rock, then uprighting himself. He springs off this rock, does what must be three front-flips, then lands besides Peter with great flourish. The boy is unamused. Spiderman can do that too, with five flips instead of three.

Wade pouts. “You look so cold.”

“I… I _am_ c-cold.” Peter wishes that chattering teeth did not exist, and curses the idea of them away to the stars above. That are covered by trees. Great. “Let’s get going. Hurry up.”

“You’re telling _me_ to hurry up?” Deadpool cackles. “Ha! Good one, kid, good one. Hurry up my _ass!”_

Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Catch _this_ , loser!” Wade then takes off, admittedly faster than Peter would’ve thought he’d be; the guy’s almost as fast as Spiderman. Almost.

After a moment of hesitation, the boy begins to run too. It’ll warm him up, he reassures himself.

Leaping over fallen trees, branches, boulders, you name it, Peter Stark and Wade Wilson have a race to the death down the face of the mountain, following the running river closely. Peter catches up quickly, earning shocked stares from Deadpool; the boy dodges and leaps and sprints with ease.

“Holy shit, kid!”

  “Surprised?”

  “What are you, a gymnast?!”

“Maybe.”

Not really. Peter resists the strong urge to web himself over things, perhaps swing up by the trees. He manages to, thankfully; it would be a horrible occurrence if Wade saw… that. Very horrible. Much bad. And besides, his web shooters are wet, so they're not exactly working properly right now.

This wild chase goes on for quite a while, as the two plummet down the steep slope, neither of them missing a step.

“I’m terrified you’re going to fall and die and it’ll be my fault,” Wade calls as the two propel themselves over an especially large tree trunk. The bark is rough under Peter’s palms, scraping them slightly.

“Don’t sweat it,” he says back. “Keep your concentration on winning, old man, because that’s what _I’m_ in the process of doing!”

“WHO’RE YOU CALLING _OLD?_ Oh, it is on now!” Then, if possible, Wade Wilson increases his speed.

Peter does too.

* * *

 

The base of the mountain is in sight, Peter realizes.

He whoops, legs admittedly tired by now, and leaps the last jump over a stump before landing at the bottom, change of slope startling him; the boy goes toppling into the grass. He carries out a quick somersault to save his neck.

He’s alive!

It is midnight in the Canadian Rockies and Peter is alive! 

Wade is giggling uncontrollably besides him, on his back instead of his stomach like Peter is.

“Holy shit, Pony,” the man chuckles. “You’re _good_. Spidey’s got some competition now, doesn't he? Ha!”

Peter glances at him. “I guess he does.” 

 _Ha! I_ am _Spiderman, you idiot._

He flips onto his back and stares up at the twinkling constellations in the dark indigo sky, winking and laughing at the two morons lying on the ground in Canada in the middle of the night.

“Polaris,” Wade states, pointing. “That’s the only one I know.”

Peter, for the second time tonight, wishes for his camera.

Screw Malibu, seriously. NOT REALLY THOUGH I LOVE MALIBU PLEASE DON'T BE OFFENDED IF YOU LIVE IN MALIBU

“You grew up here?”

“Hm? Me? Oh, heh. No. Toronto, in the city, like you. Came here often, though.”

“Lucky,” Peter mutters. “Is there snow? Every winter?”

Wade snorts, then launches into whole giggling fit all over again. “Oh, yeah. _Every winter._ Maybe even fall and spring. You wouldn’t… HA! There’s _so much_ of it. Every year. Ha! It gets really fucking annoying after a while, you know?”

Peter does not know, but wants to.

He is aboot to ask something else aboot Deadpool’s personal life when a flashlight beam crosses over him and the man, and a voice barks out, “Hey!”

“Crap,” Peter yelps, shooting up into a sitting position, having forgotten all aboot actually getting home like he’s supposed to. He turns to tell Wade to get the hell out of here, but the bastard has already disappeared. Peter stands, and holds a hand over his eyes to protect himself from the glare. He can feel himself beginning to shiver again in his damp clothes.

“Peter?!” 

Peter prays that Wade hasn’t heard that, and answers back, “Dad?”

 _“Peter!_ Steve, over here! I found him!”

“What the hell, Pete?!” 

There is a jumble of voices and Peter shrinks back. They were _all_ out looking for him…? He swallows, and approaches the light.

A very flustered Steve immediately embraces him. “Oh my God, Peter,” he half murmurs, half snarls, shoving the boy away from him as quickly as he had hugged him. “What the hell were you thinking?!” 

“I, uh-“

“Do you know how long we’ve been out here looking for you?” This is Tony, having stomped over in an Iron Man suit, face mask flipping up. “Jesus Christ, you’re fucking _wet.”_

“And dirty,” Steve adds, tone sounding worried now. “What the… what _happened_ to you…?!” 

“I, uh-“

“Whoo, Pete!” Clint reaches out for a high-five that he doesn’t get answered. “Runnin’ away, huh?”

“Shut up, Barton,” Steve snaps. “He could’ve _died.”_

“Um, I… I’m actually ok-“

“No, you’re not!”

“Is the Arachnid Boy undamaged?”

“I do hope so!”

“Do you feel sick?”

“N-no…”

“Oh, God. Come on. Let’s get you back to the cabin and _into_ bed.”

“And fresh clothes! And the shower! A hot shower!”

“Y-yes, please…” Peter glances behind him. There is no sign of anything lurking in the trees. “Um. Dad? Can you do a scan of the area? Is there anyone here?”

“Sure, Pete. You heard him, JARVIS. Why?” Tony listens to something the robot has to say, then, “Nope. No one around.”

“Was there someone attacking you?” Steve asks restlessly; his son shakes his head hurriedly.

“N-no, Pops. I’m fine. Just… wondering. You know.” 

It’s quite obvious that he is lying, but no one comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus fuck there was so much banter in this chapter... I LIKE BANTER THOUGH :DD
> 
> Basically Peter's selection of music is identical to mine, even it's uncharacteristic for him. It's easier for me to write lyrics of and identify songs I'm familiar with and like :) 
> 
> Next chapter will be EVEN MORE SPIDEYPOOL HEHEHEHEH someone tell me if their relationship is escalating too quickly, please... I feel like it is.


	11. a Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being out in the cold night air of the Canadian Rockies when you're also wet without a jacket or change of clothes CAN take a toll on your health, as Peter will see here. Wade blames himself, Peter pukes, and The Outsiders is read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be sappy for a second and just thank everyone reading this for actually doing so. I love you all ~
> 
> DISCLAIMER: OUTSIDERS STUFF BELONGS TO S E HINTON AND BLAH BLAH YOU KNOW THE DRILL.

The eleventh time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on July 6; the day he comes down with a vicious flu.

* * *

 

It starts in the morning when Peter wakes up with a sore throat and an extremely runny nose. He steps out of bed, is overcome with a sudden dizziness, and has to stop to balance himself with his nightstand. The lamp there topples to the floor with a pitiful thud.

Yesterday, the boy had been glad, elated even, that he had not gotten sick from the night before, having been out, wet, in the cold for so long.

“Guess not,” he mutters, then sneezes, vowing to murder Deadpool the next time he sees him. Peter gropes for a tissue, blows his nose ferociously, then chucks the thing into a nearby wastebasket; he misses. He shoots a web at it, then tries again. He misses. Again. Peter curses loudly, stomps over, and puts the tissue in kindly.

After a long fumble with his glasses, the boy stumbles out of his room, heads downstairs, and collapses onto a couch.

“Whoa, you ok, Peter?” asks Bruce from the kitchen doorway; Peter startles. This is not good, considering normally the boy would’ve already sensed the man by now, nay, long before now. “You look…”

“Sick? Crappy? Tired? Dead? Y-yeah. Basically all of those things apply to me right now, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce looks truly sympathetic. “Oh. I’ll go, uh, see if we have any… medicine, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks, Doctor.” 

“Please, call me Bruce.”

Needless to say, there is not a drop of anything that can assist Peter, not even a tiny pill.

“We need to get him something,” Steve is telling Tony a few hours later, over his son’s very unpleasant-feeling body. “What if it’s serious?”

“It’s probably just a cold, Steve. Leave it alone, he’s fine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. We don’t even have a _thermometer_ , Stark.”

“I’m fine, dads,” Peter mutters, but no one hears him.

“He was out for hours in the dark and cold and wet on Saturday.”

“And now it’s Monday. So? Why didn’t he get anything yesterday?”

“You’re impossible.” 

“As I’ve been told.”

“Don’t fight,” Peter says quietly. Steve glances down at him, concerned expression lining his face.

“What do need? Cough medicine? Nose medicine? Pills? Tylenol?”

“I… don’t…”

“See? He’s fine.” 

“Do you guys fight this much at home?” Natasha asks, from somewhere across the room. “If so, we may have to put Peter up for adoption.”

“He can come live with his good ol’ Uncle Clint!”

“PERHAPS HE MAY GO THITHER TO ASGARD? We will teach the boy of discipline and heroic doings!”

“No, Thor.” 

Peter sneezes.

“Bless you,” Bruce says politely. Peter nods at him.

“Let’s go, Stark. We’re going to the pharmacy.” Steve grabs his husband’s arm and drags him to the door, with much protest.

“I’ll go with you,” Bruce offers, following. “I think he has a flu. I know what to get.” 

Peter looks up. Flu?

The door closes behind them after Steve has said goodbye and that they’d be back in an hour or so.

There is a moment of silence. “What is a pharmacy?” Thor muses. “Is it the word for a Midgardian apothecary?”

“Would you like to go see?” Loki asks in an act of fake kindness, sarcasm lining his tone. His brother looks at him.

“Yes. Shall we go?”

“Go,” Clint says, offhandedly. “We’ll stay with Pete.”

Peter feels bad, always anchoring people to the house in this fashion. Why can’t he just be older and more capable? He doesn’t even have a driver’s license yet (but is in the process of getting one).

The door slams again. Peter hears Natasha wander away into the kitchen.

“What do you boys say about deer tonight?” she calls. Both said boys look up.

“Sure!” Clint whoops, standing. Peter watches him in the corner of his eye, from his position stretched out on the couch. “You down with that?”

“Um, ok? Ok, sure.”

“Nat, get the rifle!”

Peter looks up abruptly, wishes he hadn’t (his head pounds horribly and a wave a nausea washes over him), lies back down, and asks, “What?”

“Deer! Hunting! Yeah, Nat! We haven’t done something like this together in such a long time.”

“Clint, you can’t kill a deer with arrows. Put those away and get your own gun.” 

“Yeah I can. Just watch.”

Peter only realizes they’ve left when their conversation stops without warning. He sighs loudly.

Now he is alone. Great. Peter sits up slowly and retrieves a metal trashcan to place besides the couch in case he can’t make it to the bathroom if he has to… yeah. The boy puts a hand to his head (he feels a headache coming on); in his opinion, it feels a little warm, but, of course, you cannot take your own temperature.

Spider-sense goes off suddenly.

Peter’s eyes shoot open, and he looks around. There it is again… that creak. The house is creaking. That is all, he tells himself, not exactly believing it.

The boy closes his eyes again, and drifts off into a fitful sleep.

Which is promptly interrupted thirty minutes later by an especially loud crash in the kitchen, followed by an also-loud cry of “SHITBUCKET DAMMIT”.

Peter is up, is temporarily paralyzed by the pain that shoots through his head, then manages to call out, “Who’s there?!”

Who robs cabins in the mountain ranges of Canada, seriously? At least out here no one cares who Spiderman is.

The boy readies himself on the couch, arms extended.

“Yoohoo?” calls out a familiar voice, and an ALSO FAMILIAR FACE PEERS AROUND THE DOORWAY TO THE KICHEN.

Peter groans, and falls back onto the couch.

“What are you doing here?” he asks weakly. “Get out.”

Wade approaches, looking around to make sure no one is around. “Whoa, kid,” he says honestly. “You look like shit.”

“I’ve noticed,” Peter grumbles, looking at the man from his position on his couch. “You realize you’d be in big trouble if anyone but me was in here, right?”

“Nope! Because no one is!” Deadpool heads over a closet and opens it.

“Don’t touch anything.” Peter does not have the energy to be angry. “Please.”

“I saw everyone leave: the Avengers plus some random skinny dude.” Wade turns and studies Peter over his shoulder. “So I assumed, you know, logically, that you must be the last one here!”

  “You came to see _me?”_

“Sure! Why not, I mean, Ha! I don’t have anything _better_ to do, so…”

Peter isn’t sure whether to be flattered or pissed. He assumes the latter will suffice in this certain situation.

“What if anyone _minus_ the Avengers plus some random skinny dude had been here? Then you’d be dead, thank you very much.”

Wade giggles. “Haha, yeah, no. Aren't you honored, though, that you're related to the Avengers? You've got, like, fucking _Iron Man_ and  _Captain America_ as your fucking  _dads._ Why are you not fanboying on a daily basis aboot that?”

Peter glares, and turns over, earning a complaint from his brain. His mouth feels dry, and a sudden wave of chills passes over his body; the boy shivers.

“Oh, crap. Did I do that?” Deadpool has returned from the closet and is now standing over Peter, watching him closely with a large blanket folded up in his arms.

“Yes. I thought I was fine yesterday, so this might be something else.”

“No, I think I did it.”

“Alright. Whatever you say.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Pony.”

Peter is too tired to even protest to the name’s incorrectness, and still too tired to protest to the blanket’s covering of him. It is thick, soft, and warm, and the boy raises an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Making sure you don’t _die_ because of your extreme incompetence with diseases.”

Peter doesn’t answer; he only closes his eyes, ready to drift off to sleep again. He hears Wade depart, and assumes the man has left from whence he came until he hears, from the kitchen, “Ooh, shiny! What’s that?”

Peter swallows. “Whatever it is, don’t touch it!” he croaks out.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

Peter sneezes. Then he coughs. Then sneezes again.

Deadpool is back in an instant with a large box of tissues, which he hands to Peter before teleporting back to the kitchen doorway not too far away.

Wait, what?

Peter is too busy blowing his nose to comment. He is too tired. Too sick. Things like teleportation are teetering on the edge of normal at this point. He lies back down.

Noises come from the kitchen (the clattering of pots, pans, and the like) that Peter ignores, stupidly, knowing he shouldn’t but does anyway. The boy feels himself falling to sleep again, and gives in to the temptation.

This sleep, too, is promptly interrupted. Only this time, it is fifteen minutes after he has fallen instead of thirty.

“Hey, Pony. Wake up.”

Peter does, groggily. “You’re still _here?”_

“Dude, it’s only been, what, a few minutes? Of course I’m still here.” A hand is placed on Peter’s back, helping him up into a sitting position. “Here. I made this.” The boy is handed a large mug of hot coco.

Peter blinks. “W-Wade?”

“P-Pony?”

“You didn’t… why did you… I… You should’ve just…”

“Just drink it, bitch. It’s not like it’ll kill you. Maybe.”

Peter remembers how much he’d wanted hot coco back in the woods and takes the drink. It is… hot. He takes a sip.

It’s absolutely horrible.

“It’s good,” the boy says, swallowing. The liquid falls down his throat, warming that and his chest and his stomach. It feels quite nice, if one ignores the actual taste. “I like it.”

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.”

“No, no, wait… _seriously?”_

“Y-yeah. Why? It’s… coco.” Peter pauses. “It… it could use a little more, uh… sugar?”

“Aw, fuck. I knew I put in too much chocolate.” 

“It’s fine, though!”

“Yeah, whatever you say.” Wade looks around, and plops himself by Peter’s feet on the couch, putting some of the blanket over his lap.

“You can’t stay,” Peter informs him, taking another swallow of the hot chocolate and trying not to gag. Or maybe that’s just his nausea. The boy can’t really tell, to be honest. He weakly kicks at the man with one foot. “Get out.”

“Why? I’m perfectly comfortable here.” Wade leans back, hands behind his head, and sighs contentedly. “If anyone comes home I’ll leave, alright? How’s that sound?”

Peter glares. “No. Go away. You’re not supposed to be here anyway.” The same sort of chills-y feeling from before rushes over him again; he ignores it. Cue very loud sneeze plus cough combo.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks. Go away now. I, uh, appreciate all your… hard work. And consideration. But, um. I’m fine now.” Peter very attractively blows his nose and chucks the tissue into the garbage bin he has besides him.

“Ew,” Wade mutters.

“What? I’m sorry if _somebody_ got me sick.”

“Huh? No, not you. There was a cricket on your blanket. I killed it. You’re welcome!”

Peter does not thank him, only stares and continues drinking, liking the warmth a lot more than the taste. A _lot_ more.

He puts the mug down, and rolls over. “I’m going to try to get a nap in before anyone comes home. Don’t wake me up, ok?”

“Whatever you say, Pony!” 

Peter rolls his eyes, then pulls his eyelids over them, waiting for a very long time before drifting off into blackness instead of dream.

Deadpool stays perfectly silent.

* * *

 

Peter awakens next to the strong, unbearable feeling of gagging.

“Shit,” he says groggily, still sort of asleep, and swings himself off the couch, disoriented. His stomach lurches unpleasantly, and the boy claps a hand over his mouth.

Wade is by his side in an instant, hoists him up, holding the trash can under his chin. The two make their way over to the small nearby bathroom; Peter falls to his knees in front of the grungy toilet and hurls.

The food that he hasn't eaten comes out; that is to say, bile. Bile and other bad-smelling vomit stuff that the boy really wishes hadn’t decided to leave his body without permission. The water splashes as other liquids hit it, staining the clear into a strange yellow-brown-red color. It is disgusting, to be frank.

“Oh my God, dude,” is the only thing Wade says, as he holds one hand on Peter’s back and the other on the boy’s forehead, on his hairline, waiting patiently as Peter gags and pukes and pants heavily, whatever he needs to do before flushing the toilet repeatedly in a stance of disgust and confusion and sick.

“Fuck,” Peter mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t sweat it. Just doing my… job? Yeah, that works. My job. Saving… people? From puking on themselves, eh? Ha.” Wade helps the kid up, giving him reassuring pats on the back. “Dammit. You really know how to make a guy feel bad, don’tcha?”

Peter looks at him, feeling self-conscious after the previous events, and moves to the sink to wash his mouth off and out. “What do you mean? You feel bad because you had to witness that? I don’t blame you. Sorry. Again. I’m sorry.”

“You do love that word, kid. And no, it’s not aboot me witnessing… whatever you said I was witnessing. I _feel bad_ because… you know why! I got you sick.” Deadpool leans against a wall after kicking the door open to let the smell out. Peter watches him and makes eye contact through the dirty, slightly-rusted mirror and scowls as he spits water out into the once-white basin. “Stop making me repeat it, dammit.”

“Then you stop feeling bad!”

“You should be honored. Not most people can manage to make me _feel.”_

“Ok. I’m honored! You happy?”

“You’re a fucking knife, kid. A real knife.” “Thanks?” Peter exits the bathroom and heads back to the stupid couch, which sits in the center of the living room happily, waiting for its occupants’ arrivals.

_Come back and sit on me!_

Peter glares at the piece of furniture, then looks back at the Wade Wilson behind him. “I’m going up to my room. Don’t follow.” He moves to the stairs, and, predictably, a certain someone follows. Without looking back, Peter barks, _“Don’t follow!”_

“Why not?” is the whined reply as they clomp up the stairs, single file. Peter almost trips, but regains his footing before he can actually. “Whoa. You ok?”

“I’m _fine_. You can leave now.”

“No! You’re so mean to me. What if I wanna take care of you?”

“That’s creepy.”

“No, it’s not. Friends can take care of friends when that certain friend is sick.”

“I’m not… We’re not friends.”

“Ouch. Thanks.”

“You’re like twenty years older than me. The age gap to way too wide be in the ‘friends’ category. We’re more like… fucking… I dunno, alright? All I know is that I really should be calling you Mr Wilson even though I’m not, because Wade is faster. Maybe I should call you Deadpool, for God’s sake, because you _are_ a superhero, after all-“

“Slow down. You’re rambling.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Argh, my poor old heart. Hey, they don’t call me the Merc with a Mouth for nothing!”

“They call you that?” Peter wonders, comically, who ‘they’ are. His invisible friends, perhaps? 

“Yup! Given to me especially by…” Pause. “…er, hm. This is awkward. I don’t remember, but whoever it is, thank you, dear friend!”

Peter walks down the hallway to his designated room, with Wade shuffling behind him. Both enter, the latter shutting the door behind them, then moving over to the window; Peter the bed.

“Ooh! Nice view!”

“Uh. Thanks. Actually, no, wait. Thank my dad. He bought the place. And, um, gave this room to me.”

“Ooh. Your dad’s nice. Who’s he, the short Italian one? What was his name… uh… The Iron Man one?”

“Tony Stark.”

“That! Yeah! I stole a fighter jet from him once! Ha! That was funny. Say, now that I think aboot it, Spiderman was with me. Good ol’ Spidey!”

“He was?” Peter cannot recall anything of the sort.

“Yeah, yeah. It was in an alternate universe, so… I guess you wouldn’t get it?”

“Uh, no. I wouldn’t.” Peter crawls under his sheets and bedspread, pulling the thick layers over him after kicking off his shoes and socks and placing his glasses on the bedside table. He emerges again, tugs off his jeans and t-shirt, throws them at Wade. Both land on the man’s head, obscuring his sight. “Put those in the laundry basket, would you? Th… thanks.” Peter tucks himself back in again, comfortable now.

“Ooh, pants!” Deadpool holds the pair in his hands, inspecting it closely. “Levi’s, yes, very good, a bit mainstream, but what do I know, eh?” He tosses the jeans over one shoulder; they land neatly in the basket behind him. Peter rolls his eyes as the same happens to his shirt.

“Thank you.”

“No problem!” The man falls backwards into a comfy red armchair near the large window looking out at Mount Robson. “Holy shit this is pretty. Can’t imagine how it looks at night with all the stars, man. Fucking epic.”

“Yeah.”

Wade glances over. “You sure you’re alright? You sound…” He waves his hand back and forth, on a tilt.

“Huh? Yeah, fine. Stop… worrying. I’m good.”

Nevertheless, Deadpool stands, gives Peter a box of tissues and a trash can, and stands over the boy for a few seconds before asking, “Do you have a headache?”

Peter looks at him. He does; it throbs painfully now that he’s actually thinking aboot and focusing on it.

“Yeah? Why?” Wade reaches down and places a gloved palm onto Peter’s forehead.

“You feel like you’ve got a fever, kid.”

The boy swallows. “Uh, yeah. I was… feeling myself earlier. It was… hot.” He refers to his head with this sentence before realizing that Deadpool certainly won’t.

“Oh, was it?” Wade questions just as Peter hurriedly cries out, “W-wait, pretend I worded that differently!”

“Tell me all aboot it, sweetie!” Wade mock-swoons. “What did you touch? In _what way_ was it hot? Was it your dick? Your nipples, perhaps? Oh, Pony, please enlighten me!”

Peter blushes in a very undignified manner. “Fuck you! Seriously!”

“Aw, is he embarrassed? How cute!”

“Shut up, Wade!” 

“Oh, Ponyboy. How silly art thou.” The man pats the various pouches strapped on his belt, reaches into one in the back, pulling out a thermometer. “Here, put this in your mouth.” He giggles; Peter glares.

“Why do you carry around random thermometers in your… bags?”

“Um, excuse me, but they are called _pouches_ , thank you very much.” Wade shoves the glass stick under Peter’s tongue, patting the boy’s head afterwards. “And you will not _believe_ what kind of shit I’ve got in these bad boys. And girls. Not sexist!”

“What the hell,” Peter mumbles, only to have his jaw closed with one red-clothed finger.

“Ah ah ah! No talking, please. Nurse Deadpool is working his… work.”

Peter raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Sh. Stop ruining my dreams, ok? When I was a small child like you I wanted to be a doctor. Until, of course…” The man trails off, shrugging cheerfully. “Eh, no matter. Maybe when you’re older.”

Peter continues his raising of the skeptical eyebrow.

“Alright, this should be good by now!” The thermometer is yanked out of his mouth, and inspected by a very macho Wade. “Oh, geez.”

“What is it?” 

“Ok, um, I think it might be best if you just… stay in bed. For the rest of the day. And night. And rest of next day? Alright? Good boy.” Deadpool stows the thing away and jumps back over his new best friend Red Armchair. “Damn this thing is comfortable.”

“What was my temperature?” Peter asks, almost fearfully.

“Not good?” 

“Wade!”

“Over ninety-eight?”

Peter swallows. “Over a hundred?”

“Maybe?”

  The boy groans, and closes his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Wow. An actual fever. How grand. How swell. How great.

Peter watches Wade pull a small leather-bound book from one of his ‘pouches’, open it, scan a few pages, then begin to read silently. He is accompanying the sick boy; this certain sick boy is grateful. Very grateful.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” he says. “Really, Wade.”

“Eh, it’s fine! This place is a hella lot more comfy than that fucking treehouse I’d been hanging out in.”

“Treehouse?”

“Yeah. Fucking weird, right? Out in the middle of nowhere? Ha. Bet someone was murdered there.” The man says this giddily; Peter gives him a funny look.

“What are you reading?”

Wade looks down, then back up, grinning. “Oh, this old thing? Ha! _The Outsiders_ , believe it or not! After our talk the other night aboot the sunset and Dally and Pony and Johnny and whatever, I thought I might as well refresh my memory. Wanna borrow it? It’s better than I remember.”

“Read it to me,” Peter suggests, because he needs something to focus besides this stupid headache.

Pause. “Really?”

“Yes, stupid. Go!”

“From the beginning?” 

“Yeah, sure. Wherever.”

“Hee hee, bedtime story!” Deadpool flips a few pages back, and then recites (with great flourish), _“'When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home'._ Oh, Paul Newman! You were so cool!”

“Just keep reading.”

“Ok, ok, sorry.” The man does. Peter has to admit (as he slowly falls to sleep, eyelids drooping and nose running) that the guy’s a pretty good reader, and certainly says things in a very interesting… way. Tone? Style. Whatever.

The boy remembers this book, but not very well (it’s been how many years since he’d last read it); it’s fun to listen to the listen to the adventures (and misadventures) of Ponyboy Curtis and his brothers and friends as they run around together as greasers and get in trouble.

The chapter is quite long, but Peter manages to stay awake until the end of it:

_“'…But I was still lying and I knew it. I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.'”_

Peter has his eyes closed, but manages to grumble out, “Good job.”

“Why, thank you. Ha, what a workout! Bleh. I need a glass of water. Mind if I go get one?”

For some reason, this reminds Peter of the lone mug of hot chocolate still sitting on a coffee table downstairs. He peeks through his eyelids and sees, briefly, Deadpool’s legs propped out on his windowsill.

Oh, how tired he is.

“Sure…”

“You look horrible.”

“Hm.”

“Get some sleep, kid.”

“I’m in the process.”

“Good.” Wade stands, launching himself up, and saunters away to the door, presumably to go to the kitchen or bathroom or something and get a drink. Peter waits until he’s gotten back, pretending to be asleep. The boy checks to make sure the man is still here, still in that stupid chair.

He is.

He _is_ , sitting there cockily, looking out the window, sipping what looks like orange juice.

Peter really needs sleep. So do I.

Just before he falls into such, he mumbles, almost inaudibly, “P.”

Wade’s head swivels around to face him. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“P,” Peter repeats. “My name. It starts with P.” Pause. “Ends with R.”

Deadpool takes a moment to process this. “Holy shit, I was close! Pony begins with P too! HA! I’m just like Matt’s lady friend! How fun! Ok, ok. I wanna guess. Hm, P. PR. PR PR. So many things to work with! P P P PR P PR P WHAT BEGINS WITH P AND ENDS WITH R…?”

Peter listens for quite a while longer before falling into dreamland (with actual dreams this time) completely.

“PARKER!” Wade screeches just as the boy’s mind drifts away into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I referenced Ultimate Spiderman. Yes I referenced Daredevil. Am I proud? Fuck yeah.
> 
> And don't ask Wade how the hell he didn't guess Peter with the whole "begins with P and ends with R" criteria. He's just a bit dumb, ok? Don't judge him.
> 
> Nah, scratch that. I'd call it creative. He likes to think outside the box! Both of the boxes! HEHE


	12. a Stripclub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade gives Spiderman a sorry present for killing himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, just a little warning. When I read over this chapter I realized how much of a filler one it sounded like and was going to rewrite it/take it out, but... you know. I didn't want to. Why would I? This is a perfectly fine crack chapter, and besides, it was fun to write.
> 
> Because who DOESN'T want to see Peter's reaction to strippers dancing all over him? I certainly do. So does Wade.

The twelfth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on July 24; aboot a week after Peter and his family have returned from the mountains.

* * *

 

The boy hadn’t seen Deadpool since the fifteenth, when he’d stowed away in the car again for the long ride back.

Parker, was the name.

Parker, the designated name given to Peter for something that begins with P and ends with R. Peter is quite surprised he did not think of _Peter_ , it being one of the most common P names out there (that ends with R).

Oh, well. It is better if Wade does not know, though Parker _is_ one of Peter’s middle names. He’s pretty damn close. This is what the boy had told him in the car, anyhow, only to earn a long nagging for the rest of the trip over what his _actual_ name is. It was not said, of course (with great effort; Peter had to go through a lot of trouble to keep his dads quiet aboot it).

Spiderman, suited and alert, is perched on the railing of a balcony of a very tall apartment building, looking out over the city. It is around eight in the evening, not that late today; Steve and Tony had let him out voluntarily, even as Peter dressed himself up in his red-and-blue getup.

_Get back before eleven,_ they’d said, as always. Peter is determined to actually do that today. Hopefully. If everything goes well. Which it probably won’t.

The boy is too lost in his own thoughts that he does not notice that someone has shoved him until he shoots a web back onto the railing to catch himself.

“Miss me, Spidey?”

Peter would know that voice anywhere.

“Stop _stalking_ me!” he shouts, angrily, retracting the thing he hangs onto so he raises himself back up to the balcony. There, on the railing, where he was previously balanced, is someone named a name we all already know because goddamn it this story is predictable. One day I’m going to have to conjure a plot twist of some sort.

“Aw, silly little Spidey. I’m not _stalking_ you! Just keep… running into each other, is all!”

“Sure. What do you want?”

“You amazingly unfazed!”

“Unfazed?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been? How I’ve been doing in death? Ask me if my head’s ok? Anything?”

Peter suddenly remembers that the last time Spiderman _saw_ Deadpool was how many months ago, getting shot in the head. By himself. He should be worried. _Wade_ doesn’t know that the kid with the flu is secretly a spider-mutant wearing an uncomfortable red Spandex superhero suit.

Stupid flu. It left Peter affected for many days after he’d received it, of which Wade apologized for in the car whenever Tony and Steve exited the thing.

Spiderman sneezes.

“Bless you. You sick?”

“No.”

“Wow, you’re cold.” Wade sighs, scratching the back of his head, where the dip in his mask is. Peter looks at it. _“Hello?_ Robbery? Intense suicide? Saving your  _life?_ Any of this ring a bell?”

All of it does, vividly, but how the hell is Peter supposed to act shocked now, after he was reminded?!

“Holy shit,” he manages, never really having been all that great of an actor. “Holy _shit.”_

“Oh, _now_ he remembers. Thanks. Love you too, bae!” 

Peter swallows guiltily. “It’s just that… it’s been so long… No, really, I mourned. I was sad. I was really fucking confused to why you did it, but…”

  “But…? You got over it.” Wade traces a finger down his cheek, starting at his right eye. “Tear. I see how much I’m loved around here.”

“N-no no no, it’s not like that. At all. Really, man. You… were missed?”

“Mm-hm. Yeah. Whatever. I _was_ going to apologize for scaring you, but…”

“You _did_ scare me. Really! I was… scared. H-how are you alive, exactly?” Peter’s words are rushed and breathless, making up words as he goes along. It _would_ be nice to know Deadpool’s secret to survival.

“Heheh! Hoping you’d ask!” Wade lowers his voice dramatically. “Healing factor.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Ok, bye!” The man leaps off the edge of the railing, beginning to plummet to the hard concrete many stories below.

“Wh-what the-“ Peter stutters out, instinctively extending an arm and letting a web fly down, catching onto Wade Wilson’s red-clothed back. Deadpool jerks with a cry of annoyance, it sounds like, then is raised back up. “Are you _crazy?”_

“Hehe. Sometimes. What the hell, dude?”

“You can’t just… jump. What is it with you and suicide?”

“Not suicide. Heh. LOL.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I _came_ to apologize, but apparently that’s not necessarily needed. I even got you a gift!”

  Peter hoists Wade onto the balcony irritably. The man lands with a loud clonking noise. “‘Gift’?” Suspiciously, the boy watches him stand and brush himself off. Any gift from Wade Wilson isn’t bound to genuine. At all. “Somehow I don’t trust that this _gift_ is a good thing.”

“Aw, Spidey, it’s alright! Here, here, come with me.” Deadpool turns to the apartment’s sliding door leading out to the balcony he and Peter are currently on, makes a sighing noise, swivels back around, and swings himself over the railing again. Peter forces him arm to stay still. “Ah, what the hell.” The man leaps, calling loudly, “Follow meeeeeeeee-”

Peter watches him in a very puzzled, annoyed trance before attaching a web to the railing and lowering himself down quickly with it, down to the pavement where Deadpool now lies, face to the sidewalk, in the middle of a crowd of onlookers. This crowd is mildly terrified.

“Don’t mind him,” Spiderman tells everyone, taking phones with a few swift webs before handing them back. “Please don’t call the police. Or the ambulances. Or anything. Just, er… walk away. Yeah, walk away. I’ll deal with this.”

“Spiderman!” gasp a few people. Peter waves at them before crouching down besides Wade, patting the man’s back worriedly. “Um. Wade. You ok?”

“Ugh,” is the pained answer. “Give it a minute, alright? I’ll be… up in a second…” The man slaps the ground with his palms a few times. “Dammit. Not a good idea.” He lifts his head, and Peter makes a noise in the back of his throat; Deadpool’s face has been… mutilated. Yes, mutilated is a proper verb. His forehead is bleeding, his nose is crushed, and mask crumpled in the front. The only way Peter can tell of the mutilation is because of the many stains of blood that reside on it; it’s quite unsettling.

“Crap! Are you ok…?!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Nice to know you care, though! Thanks.” Wade stands and claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

“But your… your face?”

“Eh. By the time we get there it’ll be fine.” 

“Get _where-“_ Deadpool takes Spiderman under one arm and begins to drag him down the darkened street, through the cool night air. “Hey!” One of the guns holstered to Wade pokes Peter in his own thigh. “Let go of me, jerk!”

“Sh, sh, little Spidey. Everything's gonna be fine! Just follow me.” The man mumbles out a song Peter has never heard before.

“Let go!”

_“The moon upon the ocean is swept around in motion, but without ever knowing the reason for its flowing…”_

“Wade! _Deadpool!”_ Passerby are staring now; some laugh, some film, some walk by silently. Peter flushes.

_“The waves still keep on waving, and I still keep on going…”_

“WADE!”

“Hey hey hey, no need to scream.” Deadpool pats his captive’s head cheerfully, continuing to lead him down the street. “Oh, Spidey-senpai, how incredibly cool you make me feel.” 

“Ugh?! What? Why are you-“

“Don’t you want your present? It’s a sorry present! I thought you’d appreciate it. Logan didn’t, so I saved the pass just for you!”

“Where are we going?!”

“All in good time, all in good time.” 

“Tell me!”

“Shh, shh, people are staring.”

  “I don’t care!” 

“HI!” Wade screeches at some fancily-dressed couple, which looks at him either disgustedly or confusedly or both. Probably both. “I LOVED YOU ON _THE BIGGEST LOSER!”_

“Wade,” Peter hisses, just as someone else on the street calls out, “Hey, Spiderman!”

“Hi!” This is not Spiderman who answers; it’s Deadpool. Fucking Deadpool. “Diego! My man!”

“My name’s not Diego!”

“Don’t mind _Deadpool_ here,” the actual Spiderman shouts out pointedly. “He’s not mentally stable!”

“He said it, not me!”

“Spiderman?”

_“¡Hola!”_

“Can I have a picture?”

“Nope!”

“Is that Spiderman _with_ Spiderman?!”

“Yes! Spider-ception, _waaaaaaa!”_

Too many voices invade Peter’s very angry head, and he breaks away from Wade’s strong grasp with a cry of frustration. “SHUT THE HELL UP, WADE!”

“Whoa, it speaks!”

“Spiderman! Spiderman!”

“Yes, I am Spiderman! Hello, hello!”

“No, you’re not! You’re fucking Deadpool! No one knows who you are!”

“Whoa, two Spidermans.”

“NO!” Peter tells the person who has spoken. See, this is why he doesn’t _walk in the_ _streets on a daily basis_. If only Wade would do the same. “I’m Deadpool, whoo. Look at me, I’m fucking tall, muscular and my interests include eating Mexican food, being an idiot, and decapitating people!”

“Yeah, you tell him, Spidey!” 

“I believe you mean Deadpool.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Wade giggles. “Ooh, roleplaying! I love roleplaying. Hey EVERYONE I’M SPIDERMAN LOOK I SHOOT WEBS! PHISH PFFTTT PHISHHHHH!”

“They don’t sound like that.”

“How would you know? You’re Deadpool.” The two continue down the street, earning many strange glances from normal people also walking. They are in a secluded part of the neighborhood that Peter doesn’t usually venture into out of not really ever knowing where it is exactly; the whole place is dark and a little dirty. All of its buildings have bright neon signs atop them (usually these signs are flickering).

Peter wonders why the hell he’s even _following_ Deadpool. The boy reaches up and draws one of the tall man’s long katana-sword things and waves it dramatically.

“Ooh, look,” he tells a passing woman, who blinks. “I’m Deadpool, the great and powerful. Please fuck me.”

“Damn cosplayers,” the woman sniffs, continuing on.

“That was actually pretty accurate,” Wade muses, taking his weapon back and sheathing it carefully. “Just replace ‘powerful’ with ‘awesome’ and it’ll be spot on!”

“The great and awesome then.”

“Yeah, there ya go! You’re getting it.” Deep inhalation. “Say, Spidey, do you like naked girls?”

Peter blinks rapidly and coughs. “Um, _what?_ E-excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Wade says breathily, pointing to a pathetically-pink sign reading _The_ _Blue Rhino Gentlemen’s Club_. “So? Naked girls? Opinion?”

“Oh, God,” Peter mutters, clearing his throat. “Ok. Um, no. I’m not… you’re… why are you? No, I mean, uh-“

“Aw, you sound just like my friend Parker! He stutters a lot too!” Deadpool swings an arm around Peter’s shoulders and firmly marches the boy on. “This is your sorry present! You like it? Good! Because even if you don’t you’re coming because goddamn it this place is expensive. You’d better be pleased.”

“I, oh. That’s… very nice of you, but really, it’s fine, I… a simple apology would do, you can just… I… I’m…”

_I’m only sixteen, barely._

Peter is pretty sure teenagers aren’t allowed in this kind of place, not that anyone knows he’s a teenager. A normal kid would go along with it, blessing his luck for this opportunity, but not Peter. Peter, for one, has a girlfriend, and for another, isn’t a normal teenage boy who obsesses over boobs every damn second of his life.

“It’s alright, Spidey! You know you want it!” 

“I… actually don’t…”

A large, mean-looking bouncer standing outside the club sends the two a harsh glare, light from the sign above glinting off his sunglasses that he apparently adorns at night. Peter smiles awkwardly at him as they approach, desperately trying to break away from Wade’s grip.

“You two. Get outta here, ya fuckin’ pervs. This place’s for VIPs only.”

Peter somehow doubts this.

“Oh,” Deadpool coos, “but I have _passes!_ What what?” He rummages into one of his pouches while the bouncer watches skeptically.

“Well, I don’t,” Peter says quickly. “So I’ll just be going now.” He turns to do such, and promptly has his shoulder grabbed by Wade’s rough hand.

“Oh, no you don’t. Unlike Logan, you can’t slice my arms off, so my money will _not_ be wasted. You will _enjoy_ this experience, Spidey!” The man presents two slips of paper Peter can tell are printed out from a computer without colored ink to the unamused bouncer, who looks at them.

“How old are you two?”

“Both twenty-five,” Wade announces before Peter can protest. He draws the boy in close.

“Take off the masks, please.”

“Aw, c’mon, guy! We’re fucking superheroes. You know, secret identities and all?”

“Take off the masks, please, or you’re not getting in.”

“Dammit. This was all you, sir…!” Wade punches the guy in the face, then kicks him in the crotch, then throws him into the road. “Quick. Spidey. In. Now.” Peter is aboot to take off and swing away, but Deadpool has already shoved him inside.

“Y-you… you just… what if he’s not ok…?”

“Aw, screw him. His loss.”

“L-loss? What do you mean, _loss…?!”_ Peter resists his way down a long carpeted corridor to a door labeled _P_ _ush_. Loud bass can be felt coming from within.

Wade does not answer, and only pushes the door open gallantly, saying, “You first, my guest.”

Peter does not move, so he is pushed inside. “Please, Wade. Don’t you have something better to do then, uh…-“

“Spidey, I never have anything better to do than get laid.”

“Y-you don’t get… laid at…” The boy is unable to finish his sentence; the interior of this club is so much more than whatever it was on the outside.

For one, the couches are shiny black leather. For another, the bars and stages gleam, not to mention the poles, where multiple beautiful girls reside.

Very scantily-clad beautiful girls.

Peter has nothing to say, and tries his best to only focus on the loud music playing in his ears and the soft red carpet beneath his feet; the boy turns to go, only to be very firmly stopped by Wade.

“Ah ah ah,” he says loudly over the singer’s loud voice. “Let’s go, Spidey.” He winks. “You’re welcome.”

“This… this isn’t… You…!?” 

“Me?”

“Yes!” 

“Aw, aren’t you happy, Spidey? I bought you something. I never buy people stuff except if it’s Logan ready to rip my head off!” 

“Good to know! And I appreciate it! But I… I’m not into type of stuff.” 

Deadpool snorts. “Bullshit!” He throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders, raises a hand, and announces (loudly, louder than the music), “HEY, EVERYONE! LISTEN UP!” A few people actually turn to look; many whisper and point.

Peter blushes. “Wade!” he hisses. “Fucking hell… if I get… if someone says anything, it’ll be hell for my reputation…!”

Wade beams. “Oh, I know! That’s why I’ve paid all these people shitloads not to say anything! Another part of your present from yours truly.”

Peter gapes. “Why are you… _why are you?”_

“You’re welcome, again!” Deadpool turns back to the club, which is collectively watching at this point. Peter hears the name _Spiderman_ as a ripple throughout the crowd. “I’VE BROUGHT A VERY SPECIAL GUEST FOR Y’ALL TODAY! AS YOU ALL KNOW, THIS IS SPIDERMAN, AND I WANT HIM TO BE TREATED LIKE A KING WITH EXTREME CARE, ALL YOU LADIES GOT THAT?! THIS IS, UH, HIS BIRTHDAY! YEAH, HIS BIRTHDAY!”

“It’s not my birthday!” Peter tells everyone over Wade, who shushes him. “And I’m not twenty-five!” This is spoken as a hushed snarl.

“DON’T MIND HIM, HE’S JUST A LITTLE EMBARRASSED! OH, AND JUST IN CASE EARLIER IT WASN’T CLEAR, I DON’T WANT A WORD OF THIS ON THE STREETS, ALRIGHT? I DO HOPE YOU CAN SEE THESE BABIES ON MY BACK, BECAUSE I _WILL_ USE THEM!”

Nobody protests.

Peter is ready to die from embarrassment.

He cannot exactly say that he has a girlfriend; that’d be putting Gwen in supreme danger. He cannot exactly say he is only sixteen; that’d be putting _himself_ in supreme danger.

_Fuck my life_ is Peter’s recurring thought, over and over as Wade practically drags him farther into the club, ignoring all the offered high-fives and hellos he gets from other random perverts like Wade. The long platform in the center of the room stretches from one side of it to the other, multiple poles placed throughout. Around it is a bar, and farther out are couches and chairs and whatever else. In the back there are closed doors labeled as private rooms.

Peter swallows.

_I’m sorry, Gwen. I’m sorry, dads. I’m sorry anyone else in the world that I’m offending right now._

Wade roughly shoves him into a free spot on a couch, utters a cheerful, “Wait here,” and hurries away over to the bar. A few people greet him; he’s been here before. For some reason this annoys Peter greatly, and he clenches his hands into fists. Emotions clamber wildly around his head, and the boy keeps his gaze averted to the flashing colors on the ceiling as some fast pop song begins to play.

“Hey, baby,” coos some girl that Peter very pointedly ignores. Apparently she either does not realize or does not care, because she sits very close to him, beginning to stroke his right bicep. Peter stiffens. “So _you’re_ Spiderman? That’s, like, really cool.”

She’s blonde, blue-eyed, and big-titted. Anyone here except Peter would love her. Too bad she chose _him._

“I’m Lindsay,” says Lindsay. Peter refuses to look at her. “What’s _your_ name?”

“Aha, good one,” Spiderman manages. “Very good.”

“Huh?”

Peter moves his jaw around. “You’re not getting my name, alright?”

“Aw, why not?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe because I have a secret identity to protect, ever think of that?”

“Don’t mind him,” Wade’s voice rings out, and some colorful drink is placed in front of Peter on a small table by his side. “He’s very… surly. Yeah, surly. Heh. Hear that, Spidey? You’re _surly!”_

“Good job, Wade. Very clever.”

Lindsay clings to Peter like her life depends on it. He attempts to shake her off.

Wade plops himself on the left side of him, and takes a large sip of his own blue drink. “Go on, Spidey. Bottoms up! This’ll be sure to loosen you up.” He gestures to the liquor. Peter scowls. The last thing he wants right now is to get “loosened up”, especially in a place like this.

Lindsay hooks a finger under Peter’s mask, and he promptly slaps her hand away.

“No,” he growls at her. “Don’t do that.” She giggles.

“Aw, you’re so _cute!_ Can I, like, _eat_ you? I could!” 

“No, you couldn’t,” Peter tells her, sternly. “That would be cannibalism.” 

“What?”

“Fucking hell, Spidey,” Wade whines as some girl that looks like Megan Fox sidles up to him. “Have some fun, would ya?”

“Later, when we get out of here, we’re going to have a serious talk that will draw the line between each other’s definition of  _fun."_

“Ooh, _there_ you are, Spiderman,” another blonde girl (this one’s hair is slightly darker), approaching in a light blue bikini-like outfit. “I was looking for you.” Her gaze flits between Peter and Wade.

_“He’s_ Spiderman,” Wade clarifies.

“No, he is,” Peter snaps back.

“Oh my god that’s _so_ weird,” Lindsay says loudly, looking at Deadpool curiously. “There’s _two_ Spidermans! Look, Brittany, two.”

“That’s not my name,” ‘Brittany’ sighs, settling down between the two to compromise. Megan Fox girl continues waving her ass in Wade’s face. The man grins at it.

Peter feels like dying. Perhaps he will, soon, of both embarrassment and frustration.

He really doesn’t want to be here.

“Wade,” he calls loudly over Brittany. “Can I leave yet? I’m… fine. I’m good. You know, thank you for this, but, uh… I have crime to fight?”

“Don’t let him leave, Brittany,” Wade tells the girl.

“It’s Bridgette, actually.”

Peter stares at him. “What is this?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never _been_ to a gentlemen’s club before.”

“I actually _haven’t!”_ Peter snaps indignantly, pushing Lindsay away from him. “And now that I have, I congratulate myself for it!”

“Aw, Spidey, you’re so mean…” Lindsay cries, throwing herself back at him; he makes a noise through his nose.

“No. No no no. Don’t you start on the Spidey thing too.”

“See? Everyone wants to call you Spidey, Spidey,” Wade snickers as yet another girl approaches. This one is Brazilian, it looks like, with a (cough) rear end that could rival Kim Kardashian’s. Peter does not want to question how in the world she (or Kim Kardashian) manages something like that; it must be hard living life in general.

The Musings of Spiderman, an Inside Look.

“Hello,” she says formally, reaching out to shake Peter’s hand. He does, blinking very pointedly (even though she cannot see) at her freckled, tan face and not allowing his eyes to travel anywhere farther south. “So you’re Spiderman?” She speaks like Peter is being interviewed for a job; it is a bit funny, considering the interviewer is wearing a purple thong and the interviewee a spandex suit and mask. “Nice to meet you. I really appreciate the work you do here in LA.”

“Oh,” Peter says simply. “Ok. Uh. Thanks?”

“No, thank _you.”_ The girl sits herself on Peter’s lap. “I’m Courtney. I’m glad you’ve decided to come today.”

Peter resists a snort. _This is hilarious, isn’t it,_ he thinks. “Nice ass,” he manages through snickers. She looks back at it.

“Oh, why thank you! I work very hard on it.”

“I bet you do. In the private rooms?”

“Ooh, Spidey!” Deadpool reaches over and pats the boy’s shoulder, then lets his arm hang over Bridgette. Courtney giggles, swings a leg around so she straddles Spiderman’s legs, and winks, cocking her head so her dark brown bob swings. Lindsay attempts to blow a strand of her hair out of her face and fails.

“Yeah, sure,” Courtney is cooing, leaning forward. Peter politely leans back. “If you think of that way. You wanna?”

“No, not especially,” Peter tells her, removing her hands gently from his mask. “Please don’t touch the mask.”

“Aw, alright. I kinda think it’s sexy, the way you like it on.”

“I like in on not because I like it on, but because there’s a face under here that I’d like to keep secret.”

“You’re no fun,” Wade mutters.

_“That’s_ why I’m not drinking,” Peter snaps at him, glaring at the slowly-warming blue drink on the nearby table. “I don’t want to get _drunk_ and do something stupid, like take off my… mask.”

Courtney and Bridgette both study him closely. This bothers the boy a little.

“It’s fine,” the latter says. “We won’t tell anyone who you are.” Peter forces a smile that they can’t see.

“Ok. Thanks. I guess.” All of this is making him very uncomfortable, and really the only thing he wishes for now is _personal space,_ but of course something like that doesn’t exist here.

It is very frustrating.

Wade attracts another girl (this one Asian and named Heather) whom he has under his left arm, very content with his nice setup going on; two by his sides and one on his lap. How could life get any better?

Peter involuntarily earns himself a red-haired Zooey, whom he kind of waves away. She ignores this and places herself over him anyway.

“Hay, gurl,” Lindsay murmurs, continuously stroking Peter’s bicep lovingly, like it is it that is the person sitting next to her, not actually an arm of one.

_Boobs. Boobs everywhere. Butts. Butts sitting everywhere. Hair. So much long flowing hair. Please don’t take off the small amount of clothes you have now._

Peter decides he really does not like strip clubs.

_I have a girlfriend! Strip clubs are for people like Wade who don’t!_

(Or perhaps a boring one. But Gwen isn’t; she and Peter kiss (cough make out cough) frequently, and this is enough for the kid.)

But because Peter is submissive and feels a little bad because Wade actually _paid_ for this, he endures it (to a certain extent, anyway), until both Courtney and Zooey try to touch his crotch at the same exact time, like they had it planned. Which they probably have.

“Hey hey hey,” Peter cries out suddenly, sitting up straighter than he already is and shoving the two girls away. “I, um… s-sorry. Just don’t…-“

“Aw, but we’ve spent so much time just dancing…” Courtney whines.

“Don’t you wanna have some fun too?” This is Zooey, fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously. “Mr Spiderman?”

“I… Please don’t call me that.”

“No fun!” Wade calls over the sound of the music.

“What time is it?”

“Only ten,” Bridgette offers helpfully. 

“We close at two,” Courtney coos.

Well, fuck.

“Ok, um, great. I’m just going to the… bathroom. Yeah, bathroom. Please excuse me.”

“Ok! Don’t forget to come back, Spidey!”

“Yeah, Spidey.”

Lindsay only giggles as Peter gets to his feet and staggers away not to the bathroom, but to the exit. Oh, God. His fucking ass is sore from sitting for too long. The boy pushes out of the building into the cool nightly air. It’s only ten; plenty of time to get back home. Peter could use for some good sleep right aboot now.

The bouncer is still out cold in the street. It’s a miracle no one’s run over him yet. Peter helpfully drags him back to his post at the entrance of the club with a web or two, leaning his back up against the building before sneakily retreating from the scene, using buildings as things to swing from.

Oh, geez, he’s really in for it with Deadpool now, isn’t he?

And, knowing Peter’s luck, he’ll run into the guy sometime soon.

Probably in the next chapter, heheh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I MADE ALL THE GIRLS TOTAL DRAMA CHARACTERS NO I AM NOT SORRY
> 
> I AM ALSO NOT SORRY THAT THIS CHAPTER IS WRITTEN REALLY WEIRDLY AND AWKWARDLY WITH REALLY BAD ATTEMPTS AT BEING FUNNY. DO NOT EXCUSE ME.
> 
> (song lyrics belong to Enya)


	13. Peter's Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony discover that their son's been hanging around with Deadpool. Need I say more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well shit it's been forever, hasn't it? I'm pretty sure people have stopped reading this story. 
> 
> Oops. 
> 
> Oh, well. I'm going to attempt to continue it (emphasis on "attempt") just for the sake of... well, you know. Continuing it. 
> 
> I was reading old chapters for the past two days or so and I realized that some parts are actually really... BAD. Like, cringy-bad. And then there's some parts that are actually funny and witty and I'm just like well fuck me this fic's a rollercoaster of writing quality isn't it? 
> 
> So yeah. If you're still here, enjoy! :D
> 
> WARNING: This chapter includes around eleven pounds of shameless Stony Vs Spideypool banter. I hope it still sounds as good as it did in my head when I wrote it.

The thirteenth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on August 7; the summer is drawing closer and closer to a close, isn’t it? 

 

* * *

 

 

Going back to school isn’t much appealing to the boy. Next year he’ll be in eleventh grade; a junior.

 

Peter’s only friend is Gwen, and she’s his girlfriend. Harry attends some private school on the coast, near Malibu Point, farther north, so he won’t be there to accompany Peter during lunch or math or whatever. He and Gwen only have English and history together.

 

Speaking of Gwen… Peter hasn’t heard from her ever since he got back from Canada. He’d checked his phone; many missed calls from her from those previous two weeks when Peter had not had service. All the messages, each one increasingly urgent, begged for Peter to call Gwen back and that something really important needed to be talked aboot. He’d called her back as soon as possible, but she hadn’t picked up.

 

She _hasn’t_ been picking up, either. Peter had gone down to her house a few days ago to check up on her, but no one had been home; strange. Perhaps they’d gone vacation too? Gwen had known Peter was in Canada; surely she’d use common sense to assume his phone hadn’t been working?

 

The boy tries not to think too much aboot it. She probably just wanted to talk aboot _her_ going on vacation and Peter not being worried when she suddenly disappeared.

 

Something like that, anyway.

 

He sighs. It is around three on a very humid afternoon; Peter doesn’t dare go outside and risk shriveling up and DYING FROM HEAT EXHAUSTION. It looks a bit like it might rain later (that’s what the weather had said, anyway), so he stays inside and reads books he’s carefully selected from his bookshelf. 

 

Currently Peter is scanning a paragraph in some human evolution book. A few words later the boy realizes he’s simply been reading the same sentence _The stress of farming had far-reaching consequences_ for many minutes now, groans, runs a hand down his face, and bookmarks the page.

 

That’s enough reading for now.

 

Except, really, what else is there to do? 

 

Peter removes his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly. He runs fingers through his hair, leans back in his chair, sighs loudly, uprights himself, and falls over onto the floor unintentionally. 

 

“Shit,” the boy mutters, not even bothering to pick himself up again. He uses a single strand of web to sling his phone from his desk over to him, opens a random Match 3 app, and begins to play. He runs out of lives promptly.

 

Peter tosses the device over to his bed. It lands with a cheerful little bounce.

 

_If only I could be that buoyant,_ he thinks annoyedly, rolling over onto his stomach, eventually making his way over to his closet, which he smashes into and tries to go to sleep.

 

So BOOOOOOOOOOORRRRERRRRRRRREEEDDDDD UGGGH

 

Peter really wonders why summer is so boring. Personally, the boy much rather prefers school over whatever the hell he’s doing _now._ He stands, sits down at his computer, and resumes some photo editing he’d abandoned a few hours ago. 

 

“Peter?”

 

“WHAT HUH,” is the boy’s response, as he leaps out of his chair and scrambling over to the door to rip it open and stick his head out into the hallway. “Are we going out? Can I get groceries? Can I go fight crime?” He pauses. “Can we _all_ go fight crime, as a family?”

 

“Uh, no,” Tony says fromhis stand at the top of the stairs. “I was just going to ask if you're ok with curry chicken for dinner tonight.”

 

Peter manages not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine, Dad. Thanks.” He closes the door again and waits to hear his father’s retreating footsteps before sliding down to the floor, back against the door. 

 

He sighs.

 

For the next hour or so, Peter breaks the fourth wall and watches _The_ _Avengers_ on TV, marveling at how accurate the actors’ faces are in comparison to the actual people. 

 

“There should be a Spiderman movie,” he murmurs at some point, smirking to himself as the epic Stony moment was epic. Oh, the intense ships SAID PETER AS HE SHIPPED HIS PARENTS AND HIS AUNT AND UNCLES AND MORE UNCLES LOL

 

At the halfway point of the film, the boy pauses it, stands, wanders over to his desk, sits, and begins to doodle a random stick figure portrait of himself. 

 

Peter needs a life, no?

 

An idea strikes him suddenly, and he draws out a quick sketch of the mask of Spiderman’s suit on one page of a notebook, then on the mirroring side Deadpool’s. He attempts to do it from memory, fails for the most part, copies something off the internet, then compares the two.

 

This was a horrible idea, hm. The two look relatively the same; red with black and white eyeholes, but really, that’s it. Peter does not understand how people can mistake the latter for… Spiderman. That’s just insulting, to Peter.

 

The boy looks up, intending to gaze out the window above his desk out at the clear blue ocean and slowly setting sun, and promptly comes face-to-face with the certain character he’d just been drawing (that is not Spiderman, obviously). This certain character is grinning, upside down; he is hanging from the roof, looking into Peter’s window.

 

Peter yelps and scrambles back, knocking his chair over.

 

“Whoa, calm it, kid,” he hears Wade say through the glass. The boy leaps onto his desk with one swift motion, yanks the panel open, and hisses, “What the hell are you doing here?”

 

_How,_ first of all, does he know where Peter _lives?!_

 

_Please don’t become a stalker. I have a rich father who also happens to be a superhero named Iron Man. He will blast your face off ok so BACK THE FUCK OFF I WILL FILE A RESTRAINING ORDER ON YOUR ASS BITCH_

 

“Just thought I’d pop by and say hello, since I’m in the neighborhood.”

 

“Well, hello! Now get out!” 

 

“Can I come in?”

 

“ _NO!”_

 

“Aw, don’t be mean…”

 

“I’m not being mean! It’s _creepy_ to have some random dude just… just…”

 

“I didn’t look you up or anything, heh. I figured out which house was yours. It’s pretty hard to miss, eh? Haha! Ok, so you know how I snuck into your box? Yeah, well, it was pretty obvious that that box belonged to _this_ house, and I learned that that box belonged to you; the only logical deduction I could’ve come up with is that this house indeed is the one you live in, right? And whaddya know? I was right!”

 

“Shut _up,_ Wade, and get out of here, before someone sees you!”

 

“Are you embarrassed? That’s adorable.”

 

“It’s not, actually! Leave!”  


Wade hurtles himself into Peter’s room headfirst, without warning, landing in a somersault just before smashing into the closed door. Peter is pushed aside but saves himself at the last minute by carrying out this really awkward handspring onto his bed before landing on his neck. Such an action might’ve snapped it straight in two.

 

“Wade!!”

 

“Parker!!”

 

Parker. Surprisingly close; Peter can answer to this name, considering when he was smaller he had loved his middle name more than his first or last ones, and told everyone to call him by it.

 

“Stop yelling!”

 

“You’re telling me, bud?”

 

“You… get out! Now! Why are you even…!??!?!”

 

“Ok, I lied. I’m sorry. I came to apologize.” Deadpool springs to his feet smoothly, rubbing the back of his head. Peter raises an eyebrow, because this is what he’d said to Spiderman, and the apology then hadn’t ended well.

 

“For what? We haven't seen each other since… since last month sometime!”

 

“Yeah, speaking of which! Hi! Missed you. Hey, is that me?” Wade looks down at the notebook below him, putting a finger on the page. “And Spidey?”

 

Peter is aboot to web it into his own hands, but stops himself at the last second, leaping over and grabbing it from under Deadpool. “Yes. It is. Why?”

 

“I’m not ripped enough. Spidey’s _too_ ripped.”

 

“It was only your heads!” For a split second there Peter had thought that perhaps Wade would somehow figure out that Peter _is_ Spiderman, but of course he hadn’t. That was good. It _is_ good still.

 

“Exactly.” Pause. “Though, gotta say, kid, you’re pretty damn good! Heh, got any powers? Become and superhero and design your _own_ suit!”

 

Peter glances guiltily towards his closet, where a bit of the Spiderman costume is poking out. He rushes over and shuts the door to the thing completely, kicking the fabric back inside. Wade is still looking at all of Peter’s personal things on his desk; the boy leaps over and pushes the man away from all of it, attempting to create order in this mist of chaos. It fails. Deadpool falls backwards onto Peter’s bed.

 

“Ooh,” he says suggestively, and Peter flashes him a crude hand gesture. This does nothing but earn him another Wade Wilson noise.

 

“Get _out!”_

 

“Ok, ok, wait. Don’t kick me out just yet. I bought you a sorry present.”

 

Oh, no.

 

“P-present? Sorry for what? What _present?”_

 

_Please don’t let it be a strip club pass._

 

“Sorry for getting you sick, stupid. C’mon, Parker, aren’t you supposed to be smart? Fit the pieces together.”

 

Peter grits his teeth. He imagines Flash Thompson from school saying these few sentences and kicks Wade in the shin.

 

“OW WHAT THE HELL KID I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS! I’m _sorry_ if I feel bad that you got the fucking _flu_ on my account! Jesus!”  


“Sorry,” Peter snaps, glancing out a few windows to make sure no one (especially his parents) are watching. “It’s just… you’ve already apologized enough. You can stop now. I don’t need a… present.”

 

_Especially if it’s a strip club pass._

 

“Sure ya do! Wait here.” Wade giggles. “Oh, you’re gonna love it! Oh, he’s _so_ gonna love it,” he adds, addressing someone Peter cannot see. “Wait.”

 

“You said that already,” Peter mutters as Deadpool retreats back out the window, admittedly curious to what this oh-so-wonderful gift might be. Maybe it’s something actually worthwhile for Peter to keep! That’d be nice, wouldn't it?

 

He waits impatiently, twiddling his thumbs until Wade gets back, slowly lowering himself into the room from the roof with only his feet; there is something in his hands.

 

Something fluffy that is the color of a rusty bike.

 

This certain something yips happily. 

 

Peter’s mouth falls open. 

 

“Holy fuck,” he states.

 

“Holy fuck indeed,” Wade agrees, landing lightly on his feet and offering the golden retriever puppy, which is a female with cute little orange-y colored fur. “Surprise! Happy birthday! Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Happy… Easter!”  


“You got me a dog,” Peter states, not taking the admittedly adorable canine. “You. Got me. A _dog.”_

 

“Puppy, actually. She’s maybe a little over a month old! You know, saved her from the evil claws of the pet shop.”

 

“Those… you… uh, why the hell… you’re such… wh-why?!”  


“But don’t worry, she’s got all her shots and whatever else…-“  


“Wade…”

 

“And I even purchased a nice collar for her. You should be grateful, even though apparently you’re rich; not fair.”  


“Wade…!”

 

“She’s some sort of golden retriever mix, I think. Very cute, very cute. Don’t you think? Say something, kid. Parker?”

 

“Wade.”

 

“Yeah? Oh, and also, will your dads mind? Because if they do _too bad._ I already have a dog and hate that one enough, so I can’t keep another one. He’s a fucking nightmare, seriously. Don’t meet him.”

 

“Wade!”  


“Yeah, yeah, hold up a second. Are you allergic to fur? Sorry if you are. Can you take her? She’s not heavy or anything but it’s kinda pathetic just letting her hang here while I talk and you stare with your mouth open like a weirdo. Say, what are you gonna name her?”  


“WADE!”

 

“Aw, that’s sweet, but you _really_ don’t have to name her after me. And besides, Wade’s a dude’s name. Think of something more… feminine.”

 

“Holy crap,” Peter mutters. “Holy crap, Wade, you didn’t have to get me a _puppy!”_

 

“Is she not adorable? How the hell can you turn down this adorable face?”

 

The puppy stares at Peter, and utters a cute little noise that resembles a bark; puppies aren’t all that threatening. Peter gazes back, eyes wide and arms weak.

 

She’s so cute. She’s so cute. _She’s so cute._

 

“Oh, fuck you, Wade,” the boy grumbles, angrily, taking the puppy from the man and holding her close to his chest. “I hate you. So much.”

 

“I know you mean ‘love’!” Deadpool skips away and flops onto Peter’s bed like it’s his own, grinning delightedly. “Damn your bed is way more comfortable than mine. _Whoa.”_

 

“Yeah, well, get off it.” Peter watches helplessly, puppy in arms, as Wade Wilson rolls around gleefully in his bed, getting in and out of the covers, bouncing, and other childish things that children like Wade do in beds. 

 

“Aren’t you gonna thank me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Not even for the puppy?”  


Peter looks at her, she looks at him. He almost melts into a puddle of KAWAIIIIIII. “I, uh…”

 

“C’mon, you can do it.”  


“Thanks,” he snaps, glaring at the red-suited creation in his piece of furniture meant for sleeping. “Thank you. For the extremely unnecessary dog. This was an extremely exaggerated sorry gift.”

 

_Though still better than the stupid strip club._

 

“Really handing out apology presents everywhere, aren’t you?” Peter says under his breath.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Nothing.” The boy takes a step forward just as a knock rings out on his bedroom door; everyone in the room freezes.

 

“Oh crap,” Peter states loudly, flashing Wade an urgent _get out_ look. Of course the man doesn’t move at the slightest. “Wade!”

 

“Hey, bud?” It is Steve at the door, apparently. “Can I come in?”

 

“Uh, no!” the boy calls out, more grateful than ever before for his Pops’ respect for privacy. “Don’t! Please!”

 

“Why not? Is something wrong?”  


Peter sends a death-inducing warning glare at Wade, who glances at the open window hesitantly; Peter makes very loud gestures at it, putting down the puppy, which shakes itself off and trots around the room, beginning to sniff at everything.

 

“Pe-“

 

“POPS!!!” he shouts out before his father can say his name and let Wade find it out after so many efforts of concealing the stupid thing. “One second! I’m… I’m naked!” 

 

Deadpool raises an eyebrow.

 

_I’m buying you time, moron!_ Peter mouths at him; the gestures increase in size.

 

_But it’s raining_ is Wade’s answer; it sure is. Peter has checked just now to clarify.

 

_You think I care?!  
_

 

“You’re so mean, Parker.”

 

“Hey, uh, P-“

 

“POPS! DON’T SAY MY NAME, OK?”

 

“Wow, _that_ eager to conceal your identity, I see. Am I just _that_ unworthy?” Deadpool pouts.

 

“Is someone in there with you?” 

 

“U-uh, no, just the TV!” Peter switches on said TV; _The Avengers_ resumes playing.

 

“Pe-“

 

“NOT MY NAME!”

 

“What the _hell_ is going on in there?!”

 

“Sex!” Wade calls, snickering. Peter resists the urge to cover his entire face with webs.

 

“ _What?_ Who was that? P-“

 

“NO NAME, POPS!”

 

“Steve,” Tony yells from farther away in the house. “Just open the goddamn door.”

 

“JARVIS?” Steve asks. “Can you please tell me what the hell Peter’s got happening in his bedroom?” 

 

“Don’t do it, JARVIS…!”

 

“Who’s Jarvis?” Wade inquires. Peter rushes over and covers the man with his blanket.

 

“Sir-“

 

“JARVIS!”

 

“JARVIS!”  


“Well, you see, young P-“

 

“JARVIS STOP IT PLEASE NOT MY NAME-“

 

“Where the hell _is_ Jarvis?” Wade’s voice rings out; he pokes his head out from under the sheets. 

 

_“Call it, Captain,”_ says Tony on the screen. Chris Evans begins reciting instructions.

 

“Hey, are you watching The Avengers?”

 

“Yes, Pops. One second… I’m gonna come open the door, ok? Just… let me find my… pants…”

 

“Why the hell are your pants off?”

 

“It got hot!” Peter shuts his window to prevent rain from coming in. “Nobody say my name, alright? Including you, JARVIS.”

 

“Heh. Parker Parker Parker!”

 

“Who _is_ that?” Steve demands. The puppy cocks her head at his sudden change of tone. “You open this door _this instant,_ young man, or so help me I’ll…”

 

Peter leaps over and locks said door.

 

“Ooh, good job.”

 

“Sir, your son has a-“

 

“NO NO NO NO NO JARVIS IS LYYYYING,” Peter practically sings over the robot’s voice. “Pops, please wait _one second…”_

 

“You said that _sixty-five_ seconds ago!”

 

_“_ Well, can you wait another thirty?”

 

“No…-! P-“

 

“NAME!” 

 

“-did you _lock_ your door? How many times have I told you _not_ to do that?”

 

“Cap, just break it down. We can pay for a new one.”  


 

“Wait, Dad, Pops, please, _wait.”_

 

Wade giggles, and smacks the bed he lies on. “Ha! This is awesome. Kid, your family is _hilarious._ Have I said that before? Oh, god I wish I had some popcorn.”

 

“Shut _up,_ Wade!”

 

_“_ Who’s Wade? P-“

 

“NAME!”

 

“-would you _stop_ that?”

 

“No! Don't say my name!”

 

“Why not?”

 

“He… I… you…”

 

“P-“

 

“NAME!!!!!”

 

_“-_ stop this and open the goddamn door!”

 

“Why are you still here!?” Peter snarls at Wade before slouching his way reluctantly over to where the voices come from, gently pushing the puppy out of the way, and opening the door a crack. “Hi?”

 

There stands a very angry Steven Rogers. “Open the door, young man.”

 

“Uh, well, you see, I can’t exactly, _do_ that…” Peter squishes out casually and shuts the door behind him. “Yes, Pops?”  


Tony watches amusedly from the background, a yellow visor over his eyes and electric drill in hand.

 

“I _was_ going to ask you to help with dinner, but-“

 

“Oh, ok! Yeah, I can do that. Just, uh… gimme a minute…”

 

“- _but—-_ don’t interrupt—- now I’m not going to, because I want to _know what the hell is in your room, Pe-“_

 

“PARKER! Call me, uh, Parker.”

 

Steve looks down at his son. “Parker…? Since when do you enjoy being called by your middle-”

 

“NO POPS DON’T SAY THAT NO NO NO NO NO NO.”

 

“What is _up_ with you?! Open that door!”  


 

“N-no! I can’t…! I, um. Nothing’s happening, really. Just the movie. Trying to watch!”

 

“It sure doesn’t sound like that…”

 

Peter smiles awkwardly. “Well, I guess you heard wrong.”

 

“Why were your pants off?”

 

“I told you. It got hot. It’s really humid, Pops. It’s raining, did you know?”

 

“Is it, JARVIS?”

 

“Yes, sir. There are predicted thunderstorms, uncharacteristic for California.”

 

“Hm.” Steve’s hard glare pierces into Peter’s very soul, blue eyes angry and chiseled features tensed. “If there’s something you’re not telling me…”

 

Peter thinks for a second that perhaps he is saved… “Yeah! There’s nothing. There’s… nothing. Just a movie. The Avengers! You guys! Hey, Dad, did you know Robert Downey Jr. looks a _lot_ like you? Well, he does. I saw the, er, sexual tension! It was great. They captured the scene with you guys all up in each other’s faces perfectly, am I right? Heh, and… um, um… there was that part with Mr Laufeyson and the Thor thing and the part when Dad battled Thor. That was cool. And Pops-“

 

“Rambling!” Wade sing-songs from the room; Peter cringes and presses himself harder against the door.

 

“Who was that?”

 

“The TV. Heh, must be an ad. I’m watching it on FiOS, so, um… ads. Everywhere. Haha, whoo, ads. I hate ‘em _so_ much.”

 

Peter is not a good liar, and Tony knows this. Steve, on the other hand, sees no reason for his son to lie aboot something this… important (sort of).

 

“Hm,” the captain of America mumbles thoughtfully.

 

“Oh, come on, Steve,” Tony mutters, approaching and putting his free gloved hand on his husband’s shoulder. “You’re not seriously _buying_ this, are you? He’s a fucking liar.”

 

“Language, Stark!”

 

“He’s fifteen. He can handle a few F-bombs here and there.”

 

“Sixteen,” Peter corrects quietly. Tony points at him.  


 

“Right. Almost forgot how fast you’re growing.”

 

Peter smiles awkwardly, sort of opening the door so he can slip back inside without revealing who’s on his bed and what’s sniffing around under his-

 

The golden retriever puppy yips. 

 

The wince shown by Peter is impressively violent, so much so that he closes his eyes and curls his upper body up into a ball.

 

“Was that a dog?!” Now even Tony looks flabbergasted.

 

“Ad?” his son suggests weakly.

 

“Aw, _who’s_ a good girl? Goddammit, Parker, if you don’t name her I will.”

 

“Ad…”

 

“Pete-“

 

“Name!”

 

“-what the hell is… Open that door! For the hundredth time, would you just _do it!”_

 

Peter casts a pitiful glance at Tony, who glares. “Listen to your father.”

 

Well, all hope is lost now, isn’t it. 

 

The boy hangs his head in shame and pushes the door open.

 

“Whoa, kid, I didn’t think you’d actually _do_ it,” Wade says in mild surprise, still under Peter’s blankets. The puppy is up with him, being scratched behind the ears. The moment she sees all these cool new people, she very stupidly leaps off the bed, a height too tall for her; Peter jumps forward and catches her with the reflexes only Spiderman can use. “Ooh, good catch. You know, it’s really hot under here. Can I get out now, now that I’m found out and whatever? By your dads?”

 

Peter puts his head in both hands. The puppy scrambles over to Steve and Tony and viciously begins to sniff them, making adorable little snorting noises.

 

“What the actual hell,” Tony states, lifting his visor without touching it. 

 

“Um,” Peter answers, voice muffled by the hands that cover his mouth. 

 

“Pe… er, _son.”_ Steve knows to correct himself now; for that the boy is very grateful. “Did… something happen with Gwen? She hasn’t been over recently, now that I think about it… are you ok? Just, er, _exploring_ your, hm…”

 

“Huh,” Tony grunts. “Who knew.”

 

“No no no no, guys, it’s not like that,” Peter almost pleads, wanting to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. “I… believe me, would you? I… he’s…”

 

“Your new boyfriend.”

 

“NO! I… This is Wade!”

 

“Hel- _lo,”_ Wade says, leaping out of the bed and striding over. Both parents eye the weapons cautiously. “Nice to meet you, Parker’s parents.” He snickers. “Or at least that’s what I call him. Little jerk won’t give me his real name.”

 

“Shut up, Wade!”

 

Steve straightens; Wade is slightly taller than him and a lot taller than Tony. “I know who he is. He’s Deadpool.”

 

There is a pause as Wade’s face lights up like a firework on the Fourth of July. “Whoa. WHOA. YOU KNOW WHO I AM. YOU _KNOW WHO I AM!_ OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU. Love me, Captain America. Please. Oh, dammit! You know who I _am!”_

 

“Of course I do,” Steve says sourly. “How could I forget the punk that flooded by bathroom with cesspool water?”

 

Another pause.

 

“Oh, that, yeah, right!” Wade chucked heartily, clapping the angry man on the shoulder. The angry man stiffens (angrily). Peter sends a questioning look at both of them.

 

“We used to work together at S.H.I.E.L.D,” Wade explains cheerfully, “until I quit and ran off to make better money.”

 

“You didn’t quit,” Tony snaps. “You were _fired.”_

 

“You worked at _S.H.I.E.L.D?_ ” Peter demands, forgetting for a moment that Deadpool is actually a lot older than him.

 

“Yeah. Long time ago.”

 

“You were still a toddler,” Steve says, eyes still fixed on Deadpool, who looks very proud of himself. 

 

Peter bends down at picks up the puppy, who licks desperately at his face, tail wagging viciously; he lets her.

 

“Now, see, isn’t that just adorable?” Wade sighs dreamily. “Let him keep it. I promise I fixed her up and stuff, got her shots, got her a collar…”

 

“Parker.” Tony now understands; Peter assumes he doesn’t want this guy knowing his son’s real name either. Apparently no one actually likes each other. “What is _Deadpool_ doing in your room, if I may ask?” His eyes do that angry flashing thing they do when Tony gets frustrated.

 

Peter switches off the TV.

 

“I, um…” he stammers, out glaring at Wade because THIS IS ALL HIS FAULT FOR NOT LEAVING WHEN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO STUPID IDIOT. “He… See, uh, dads, it’s… complicated…”

 

“Is it,” Steve says flatly. “Mr Wilson, would _you_ care to explain what’s going on here?”

 

Mr Wilson beams. “Me and Parker’ve been friends since forever, eh, kid?” He nudges Peter, who cringes in response. “We met some time ago in Los Angeles!”

 

Peter swallows. 

 

“Hm, very sweet,” Tony sighs, and rubs his eyes a bit with his knuckles. “Good job. Why, then, were you _in_ my son’s _bed?”_

 

“He’s got his suit on,” Peter quickly butts in. “He’s not naked. I was just… er, hiding him there. From you guys. That, um, failed, though.”

 

“But _you_ were,” Steve growls, eyes turning harsher than even before. “Remember, _Parker?_ We were stuck out here waiting while you took _soo_ long to put your damn pants on!”

 

Steve doesn’t usually swear, needless to say.

 

Peter crumples backwards. “No, Pops, really, that was just me buying time, and, uh… I was clothed! I was fully clothed!”

 

“He was,” Wade clarifies helpfully.

 

“See?”

 

“I’m not sure that we _trust_ Mr Wilson here,” is Steve’s very cold response. “Not after all the shit he’s done back when we worked with him.”

 

Steve doesn’t usually curse either.

 

Tony raises an eyebrow. “True. Par…ker, do you realize how old he is?”

 

Peter wishes that people could die on command. “Y-yes! He’s, uh…” The boy is temporarily paralyzed, as he cannot remember who Deadpool had told his age to: Peter himself or Spiderman?

 

“He’s forty years old,” Steve snaps.

 

_Thirty-five, actually._

 

“Thirty-six, actually,” Wade corrects, making Peter glance over sharply. Is he? When was his birthday, then? “But pretty close.”

 

“ _I’m_ thirty-eight.” Tony sounds calm, collected. “He’s old enough to be your father, and you’re underage.”

 

“N-no, Dad, it’s not like that, really, I-“

 

“Get out of my house, Mr Wilson.” This is Steve, moving aside for Deadpool to pass. “Tony, would you escort this hooligan to the front door, please? I’d like to have a word with our son.”

 

“‘Hooligan’?” both Wade and Peter ask at the same time.

 

“Jinx!” the former giggles. 

 

“Yes, _hooligan.”_

 

Tony steps forward and yanks Deadpool out of the room, beginning to drag him away down the stairs. Peter stares after him, yipping puppy in arms. 

 

“Ooh, been lifting a bit, huh, Mr Stark? That’s cool. The last time I saw you you were frickin’ skinny as all hell! Bye, Parker, BTW! See you… sometime!”

 

“No, you won’t,” Tony’s voice rings out.

 

Peter swallows.

 

Steve pushes him into the room and shuts the door, looking around to make sure everything is locked up and closed before stating very pointedly, “ _Peter.”_

 

_“…_ Pops…?”

 

“I don’t want you hanging around that guy anymore, alright?” His voice is kind, caring, sympathetic. Like he knows Peter _likes_ hanging out with Wade (which is completely wrong), but also knows that these hanging out sessions will get the boy killed (which is also completely wrong, Peter hopes). “I’m sorry, but he’s dangerous.”

 

“‘Dangerous’?” Peter demands, putting the puppy down and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean? I mean, sure, he’s… Deadpool, but… isn’t he like a superhero or something? The suit and all…-“

 

“No, Peter,” Steve says seriously. “He’s a mercenary.”

 

Peter blinks. “Oh.”

 

“He’ll do anything for money, and that kind of personality is dangerous.”

 

“Pops, it seriously sounds like you think I want to _date_ him or something.”

 

“Isn’t that the case? It’s fine if you’re a… homosexual, Peter, but he-“

 

Peter blushes. “NO! N-no, Pops! Oh, God. No. I… I-I’m still with Gwen! You’re getting the wrong idea. We’re just… acquaintances!”  


Steve does not look quite convinced, but doesn’t question it. “Even so, Pete, this… age gap makes me… uneasy. It’s not safe. Please, just… don’t see him anymore, ok? It’s for your own good.”

 

Peter doesn’t mind not seeing Wade anymore, but the fact that his father is _telling_ him not to sort of insults the boy (also he highly doubts Wade is going to leave him alone). “Um. Ok. Sorry, Pops.” Pause. “Can I keep the dog, though? He bought it for me, when, um… yeah. Can I keep her?”

 

Steve looks down at the furry orange ball now rolling around on the carpet and sighs loudly. “Yeah, I suppose. Ask your dad. You’ll have to take care of it _on your own,_ you hear? Dammit, when the hell did he get you a dog…”

 

Peter swallows. “Yes, I know. Thanks.” There is an awkward moment of silence. “Yeah, Pops. I won’t… I won’t hang out with him anymore. It’s fine. You can… leave now?”

 

Captain America looks down at his son, obvious worry lining his expression as he says, “I really hope you haven’t gotten yourself tangled into something you can’t get out of, Pete,” before exiting the room, carefully closing the door behind him. The second he's gone Peter groans loudly and falls onto his bed, mentally cursing Wade Wilson all the way to space and beyond, hoping he dies and never comes back. This might be a bit harsh, but Peter is frustrated.

 

He does not want to see Deadpool anymore, but knows, somehow, that this new proposal will not actually be fulfilled.

 

He names the puppy Ren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way whO SAW THE DEADPOOL MOVIE???  
> It was FUCKING AMAZING IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT OH MY GOD DROP EVERYTHING AND GO SEE IT NOW. STOP READING THIS, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!  
> (also there was a singular Spiderman reference can I just die happily now) 
> 
> Love all of you! See you next chapter.
> 
> (I'm probably just going to post a bunch of pre-written chapters in a row for next half-hour or so. If that pleases you then hurrah! you're welcome. That'll probably explain why there's references to Deadpool's movie in later chapters after I've talked aboot it... because these next few were written before I saw it.)


	14. (more like 'on') a Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a piece of art I've seen around the Internet, this chapter certainly is one that possesses a lot of (unnecessary) Spideypool fluff. Am I complaining? No. Are you? I do hope not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked writing this chapter; 'twas fun! 
> 
> I read it over earlier and realized that Wade sometimes doesn't act like an adult (no, scratch that, he NEVER acts like an adult). I can't tell if this is a good thing or a bad one... Huh. The mysteries of life.

The fourteenth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on August 12, not very long after he’d been banned from doing so.

* * *

 

It is a Wednesday afternoon, and a crummy one at that. It is still raining from five days ago; rain is not frequent in southern California, where Peter is, but when it does happen to come along, man, does it _pour._

 

Not very pleasant, though nice; cools everything off a bit.

 

It is because of this Peter had decided to suit up and go for a swing out in the city. He’d taken one of the lesser cars Tony owns, proudly toting the brand-new driver’s license he’d recently acquired in the past month or so. Oh, how pleasant it was, driving instead of taking the stupid tram. And now, the boy can store his clothes and such in the _car_ instead of up on a building or in the subway’s bathrooms.

 

Spiderman whoops giddily as he flies through the air, shooting out another web from his wrist and letting it catch onto a (conveniently placed) crane, grabbing onto this and letting himself swing forward through the pouring rain. Thunder crackles up from the lowly-hovering clouds; Peter quickly finds refuge on the side of a building. Raindrops pelt his back and neck, drenching him only slightly, as Peter had designed this suit to be waterproof.

 

He sees a threatening lightening strike off in the distance and makes a mental note not to get up on top of any buildings.

 

Not many people wander out on the streets, and the ones that do have got umbrellas hovered over their heads, thus shielding their vision from the Spiderman high up; for this he is grateful. The boy’s not really in the mood to get sighted today. Though, knowing the public, someone’s going to see him anyway, because the public is the… public.

 

Yup.

 

Peter scrambles along the side of the building, moving left instead of up (to the top of the building) or down (to the sidewalk), congratulating himself on his fabulous climbing skills.

 

He hears someone shout something from far below that he cannot make out, and promptly a familiar tingling sensation crawls across his scalp. A ringing fills his ears.

 

MY SPIDEY SENSE IS TINGLING BLOLOOOLOLOO

 

Peter looks down, eyes scanning the far-away street, desperately searching for any sign of commotion. There is none, as far as he can tell… surely he couldn’t have imagined anything…? Perhaps this storm is getting to his head?

 

Unlikely.

 

There it is again; the voice! Peter stiffens and looks around again, ears ringing furiously and brain pounding. What the hell is wrong? Turns out nothing is, the boy realizes as he spots a familiar red spandex-clad figure down on the sidewalk far below, yelling at the top of his lungs two words that sound a bit like, “NINE CASKETS”.

 

Peter curses under his breath.

 

“ _I’m sorry for abandoning you at the strip club. Ren is fine. Thank you for her, by the way. Much better present than those stupid girls.”_

 

But of course he cannot say this. 

 

Without thinking aboot all the other people down there, Peter screams back, over the rain, “WHAT?!”  


 

“I am sad; NINE CASKETS!!!”

 

Peter blinks. Wade is sad. What caskets? Why are there nine of them? Why is he sad? What is life???

 

“HUH?!”

 

“MY SAM-ED! NINTH CAT!”  


 

“What the hell?!”

 

Peter cannot imagine the strange looks that stupid man must be getting and doesn’t much care. He deserves it, for showing up in the rain like the stalker he is.

 

“I AM SPECIAL ED, FIVE BASS!”

 

“SHUT UP, WADE!”

 

“I AM FAST!!!!”  


Peter wishes he could simply reach down and punch the idiot with all his might from up here, because he _really_ doesn’t want to go down.

 

Of course he ends up going down anyway, leaping delicately onto the pavement and making his way over the very soaked man. Rainwater drips from both his swords and guns and knives; Peter subconsciously wishes, for Wade’s sake, that it does affect the weapons any if they get wet. 

 

People glance at them as they pass and noticeably speed up. Peter does not much blame them; he would too if in their shoes.

 

“What?” the boy hisses, now close enough to hear whatever Deadpool has to say.

 

“I said, ‘Nice ass’.” The man folds his arms, cheerfully, and chuckles. “Thank me. I went through a lot of screaming to get that message across to you. Geez I musta looked insane.”

 

“You _are_ insane. You’re not well. You’re crazy. You need mental therapy.”

 

“Wow, thanks.”

 

“Why are you here? Are you _still_ stalking me?”

 

“Ha, no, not this time. I actually have a _purpose_ in life today!” Big grin. “A mission from… someone. Forgot his name. _But_ this is getting me moolah _big_ time, so all’s good. All’s good.”

 

Peter recalls what Steve had said aboot Wade being a mercenary and steps backwards politely, foot landing in a puddle, soaking it. “Good job. You should probably get back to that now. I’ll leave you alone.”

 

“No no no, Spidey, I pulled you down here for a reason!”  


“To tell me I’ve got a nice ass.”

 

“Yeah. And to say hi!”

 

“Hi?”  


 

_“Hola!”_

 

There is a pause.  


 

“Are we done here?” Peter asks irritably, taking another step back. “I’ve got… things to do.”

 

“Like sit around on the sides of office buildings idly, twiddling your thumbs?”

 

“Sure. Those kinds of things are important too, you know.” Spiderman turns to go, only to be grabbed back by Wade. “What do you _want?_ Don’t you have some job to do? The money, remember? Think of the money, Deadpool.”  


 

“Why’d you leave me?”  


 

Peter stiffens, and swallows. “Hm. The… I, uh. The… strip club?”

 

“No, Spidey, the supermarket.”

 

“I’m sorry about that, really…”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Yes! I just… you heard me, that sort of stuff isn’t really my scene. None of that was my scene. You know, the drinking, and the dancing, and the girls and the sex and whatever else was in that admittedly claustrophobic building…”  


 

“Spidey?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Wade looks forgiving, much to Peter’s relief. “It’s ok! I get it. You don’t have to do that admittedly adorable rambling thing you enjoy running off on. You and Parker both!”

 

Peter reminds himself to force either himself or Spiderman to _stop doing that._

 

“But, tell me.”  


 

“What.”  


 

“Are you gay?”

 

“ _What?!”  
_

 

Deadpool giggles. “Aw, sensitive, aren’t we?”

 

“N-no! Why… why would you… what…?! Why do you…-“

 

“It’s just that you don’t seem very interested in girls. Or boobs. Or womanly parts in general.” He seems to sense Spiderman’s expression under the mask and quickly says, “It’s fine if you are, man. I’m down with that. Fucking hell, Spidey, I fucked a dog once; nothing’s weird to me anymore.”

 

Peter isn’t sure how to respond to any of these things. 

 

“Ok, well, great. I’m not gay, alright? Nice talking with you.” He turns and begins to leave.

 

“Would you be willing to help a guy out?” 

 

Peter stops, but does not look over at the man who has spoken. He swallows, and manages, “Depends on what kind of help we’re talking about.”

 

“You don’t owe me anything, so it’s fine if you say no,” Wade says. Peter nods. “ _But…_ ok, so you know the job I was just talking aboot? The one that’s getting me the big ones?”

 

“Sure, yeah.”

 

“Well, it involves this nice building here.” Deadpool pats said building affectionately. “And… well, hm. How should I put this?… getting to the top of it.” 

 

Peter looks upwards, up at the tip of the tall structure, many floors away. “That’s why you’re here? You’re not stalking me?”

 

“Nope. Relief, right? I wouldn’t _stalk_ anyone. Hehe, that’s fuckin’ _creepy.”_

 

You’re _fucking creepy,_ Peter thinks. _Just saying. No offense or anything._

 

“Whaddya looking at?” Wade demands of some random staring passerby, who quickly avert their gazes pack to the sidewalk. Peter raises an eyebrow.

 

“Really?”

 

“Hey, it’s weird when people stare at me. Makes me all… eugh, ya know?”

 

“No, actually.”

 

“Eh, whatever. So, aboot that favor?”

 

“You never _told_ me the stupid favor.”  


 

“No, but I implied it. You really that dense, Spidey? Do I really have to spell it out?”  


 

A particularly sharp pelt of raindrops hits Peter’s head, and he shakes it suddenly, making Wade giggle. The boy glares. “Yes, you have to spell it out. I’m stupid, whoo.” He rolls his eyes.

 

“Aw, you’re not stupid, Spidey!” Deadpool claps his hands down on Peter’s shoulders, beaming cheerfully. “I want a lift up this building! There, I said it. Damn, that sounded better in my head. Less…” One hand is waved around before being placed on the boy again. “… demanding. Huh.”

 

It takes Peter a few seconds to process what Wade _actually_ wants. “You… you want a _lift?_ As in _me?”_

 

“Uh, sure! If you wanna put it that way. Yeah, Spidey, I need a ‘lift’. I need you. Please? It’s so much trouble fighting my way up to the top. Or climbing. _Jesus._ You’ve got it easy, with your sticky hands and feet or whatever, being a spider like the spider-man you are… Ha! See what I did there? Fucking genius, amirite?”

 

Peter’s voice is flat: “Yeah. Pure.”

 

“So you’ll help me?”

 

“I never said that.”

 

“Aw, c’mon, Sp-“

 

“But I will.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said I’ll help you.” Peter has no idea why he’s agreed to this… proposal, but he feels as if he owes Deadpool a little (even though it had been stated before that he doesn’t) for ditching him in the middle of his own sorry gift, no matter how unpleasant. One thing Peter does not like: owing people things. It becomes a weakness in the mist of an actual battle or negotiation. Slows one down, especially a superhero (as Peter likes to think himself as). “Though I don’t really see how.”

 

“Simple! I hold onto you, and you climb.”

 

Peter blinks, taking back what he’d thought aboot owing people things. “ _What?”_

 

Deadpool sighs. “I…” He points to himself, “… hold onto _you…”_ His finger swings around to face Spiderman now, “… and _you_ climb.” The man makes spider-leg movements with his arms. “Up this building. To the top, where that needle thing is. It’s easy to break in from there.”

 

“Break _in?_ What exactly are you doing?”

 

“Secret stuff. Mafia shit for some dude named… what was it… Newman? Noodle? Damn, I forget…”

 

“Newton?” Peter suggests without thinking, recalling the time Deadpool had mentioned some guy to him back in the Mexican place’s bathroom. But wasn’t he working _against_ him that time?

 

_It doesn’t matter, because he’s a mercenary._ Now that Peter _knows_ this, it’s getting harder to ignore. Perhaps one day he’ll be payed big time to assassinate _Spiderman,_ or _Peter Stark._ Would he do it, if the amount of bills was large enough?

 

Probably.

 

“Yeah, that was it! How’d you know?”

 

“Er, lucky guess.”  


 

“Wow, good one! I should use you more often.”

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

Pause.

 

Peter stares hard at the man, trying to analyze something, _anything,_ aboot _Deadpool._ It is virtually impossible; though his emotions are strangely visible through that stupid mask, the boy cannot tell anything aboot the guy’s _face,_ eyes, mouth, whatever. It’s… unnerving. Can Wade himself tell what Peter’s facial expressions are like?

 

“So, aboot the deal? You in or not?”

 

“What are you going to do, once you’re in there? I’m not helping if it’s anything…-“

 

“Oh, you know, the usual. Steal something for the big guy, unalive a few bitches, get the hell outta there. No one will suspect anything, hehe.”

 

“‘Unalive’?” Eyebrow raise.

 

“Yeah, it’s my replacement for the K-word.”

 

Peter takes a second to figure out what the k word is. “Whoa whoa whoa. You’re going to… _kill_ them? What’s the point in that?”

 

Spiderman himself never kills anyone; only knocks them down or ties them up. The thought of _murdering_ someone sickens him.

 

“Hm. That does sound bad when you say it like- _wait._ Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

 

“No. And I’m not taking you up there if you’re going to _murder_ innocent-“

 

“Oh, yeah, never mind. That was in _that_ show.” Both Wade and Peter pause. “Or was it… it _was_ Ultimate, right? Or… that movie with Logan…?”

 

“What.”  


 

“Now I’m confused. Forget I said anything. And yeah, I’m going to K-word them. Why not? It’s not like these _katanas_ and _shotguns_ can simply push people over.”

 

Peter is reminded of what Deadpool had done at the school how long ago, how he’d _decapitated_ those… ninja people. Without fluttering an eyelash. Just… killed them (though it was considerate of him to wait until all the students were out of the classroom).

 

“Why don’t you just use melee? Like me? It’s… cleaner, with a lot less consequences.”

 

“Oh, right, I forgot. You’re a _hero._ You have _morals.”_

 

“I do, and honestly, I’m surprised you don’t.”  


 

“Alright, alright, fine, I’ll try not to… exterminate anyone. Sort of.” Wade’s voice is rushed, and Peter detects a hint of exasperation. “But it’ll take more lives if I take the elevator or stairs, which I’m trying to avoid. That counts as morals, right? That’s why I’m asking for the easier, safer way up the _side_ of this thing.” Deadpool claps his hands together. “ _Please,_ Spidey? I won’t k-word anyone! Or at least attempt to. Promise! Just let me ride you to the top of the world, _please?”_

 

“Don’t word it like that,” Peter mutters, earning a snicker from Wade.

 

“Yeah, you’re right. If either of us rode the other, it’d be _you_ on _me.”_

 

Spiderman makes an exaggerated noise of disgust. “Fuck you! Forget your… lift. Go yourself, up the side.” He turns to go once again, and, once again, is tugged back and spun around to face a very pleading face of Deadpool. This certain Deadpool falls to his knees and reaches up to Peter’s waist. People stare. Peter’s face turns red.

 

“Please please please, Spidey-senpai! I’m sorry! You’re never going to ride me. Never ever ever. I’ll ride you. You’re the dominant one! I’m uke! I’m uke, really! Please forgive me! Just let me use you as a convenient spider-elevator? Please?” He makes sobbing noises into the boy’s stomach.

 

Peter swallows and bites his lip. “Oh my God, Deadpool. Deadpool, ok. Just… get up, would you? I’ll help you. You promised not to… unalive anyone, right?” He grabs the man’s right arm and drags him upwards.

 

“Yes, I promise, Senpai!”

 

“Stop it with the… er, _Senpai_ thing, would you?!”  


 

“Ok, Spidey.” Wade grins. “I knew I’d win you over.”  


 

“Keep talking like that and I’m leaving for good.”

 

“Ok, ok, I’ll shut up.” Deadpool shuts up for approximately five seconds before bursting into a conversation with someone who is not Peter and not anyone on the street either. The boy tries to ignore it, and puts his fingertips and toes on the front wall of the designated building. 

 

“Um. Wade.”

 

“-yeah, I knew he would, stop worrying, would you. Yes, dear Spiderman?”

 

Peter really hopes no one sees this. “You’re going to have to hop on yourself and… hold on somehow. Can you manage that?”

 

“Yes, sir!” Deadpool snickers. “Ooh, this’ll be fun…”

 

Peter does not like the sound of that. Something large and heavy (guess who) wraps himself around the boy, who yelps, shouts out, “WADE”, and topples back to the hard ground, saved by Deadpool’s cushion-y body.

 

Someone snickers. 

 

“You! Shut up! No one saw that!” Peter yells at all the people walking past. Wade is giggling hysterically. 

 

“Oh, God I’ll give anything to see that on camera. Did anyone record that?”

 

Some random girl raises a phone; Wade rushes over and watches something on it. Both laugh together; Peter grumbles under his breath, saying loudly, “Anyone else who got that on camera, we’re cosplayers. Please don’t post it to anything.” 

 

“Doesn’t really look like it to me,” someone mutters from the crowd.

 

“Spidey, you’ve _gotta_ come see this! Ha! Priceless!!” 

 

“Shut up, Wade! Everyone, move on! Nothing to see here!”  


 

“Thanks,” Wade tells the girl with the video, waving her away before heading back over to Peter. “Hee hee. The way you fell was _awesome._ Dammit. Fucking hilarious!”

 

“Shut _up,_ Wade.” Peter is blushing, and Deadpool can tell by the tone of his voice. Geez. Peter is angry at Spiderman himself; isn’t he supposed to be able to hang onto anything, no matter the weight? Peter weighs around 160 pounds. How much does Wade…? A freaking _ton?!  
_

“Let’s try this again,” Spiderman suggests, to which Deadpool snickers. 

 

“Don’t fall, sweetie.”

 

“Shut up, Wade.”

 

“That’s three times over the course of a minute! Impressive, I must say.”

 

Peter resists a fourth and instead silently climbs back onto the wall. “Warn me when you’re going to to jump, ok?”  


“Whoa, Spiderman,” says a bystander. 

 

“Alright. _Now.”_ Peter braces himself as the weight of Wade Wilson is thrown at him, weighing the boy down; he manages to stay clung onto the wall, biting his lip.

 

A member of the crowd laughs. 

 

“Damn, how much do you _weigh?”_ Peter demands under his breath, taking a tentative move upward. Rain pelts both him and the man on his back, and thunder booms loudly in their ears. 

 

“Eh. I dunno, but I can assure you it’s all muscle. _Not_ fat. I’m not fat. Speaking of which, you're fucking _tiny,_ dude. I should force chimichangas into your small throat until you explode.”

 

_210 pounds,_ the boy remembers, feeling a little guilty (not to mention creepy) for knowing this. He’d read it off the internet (which, for some reason, knows); probably a good reason not to trust it.

 

One of Wade’s arms is wrapped around Peter’s neck, and the other around his chest, under one of the boy’s armpits. Both of his knees are at Peter’s hips, bent back so that his calves don’t get in the way. Even so, Spiderman reminds the man, “Keep your legs out of the path of mine.”

 

“Sure thing, Spidey!”  


 

Peter, reluctantly (and with some trouble), begins to climb, ignoring the stares and murmurs he and Deadpool are getting, putting one foot after the other, hand after hand. Fingertips and toes clutch the smooth exterior of the building, each movement upwards slightly harder than the last.

 

“This was a horrible idea,” Wade mutters. “Who’s was it?”

 

“Yours,” Peter growls back. “Too late to turn back now, though.” Their destination is so far… so far…

 

Ten seconds pass, and Wade looks behind them. “Heh, this is actual kind of cool! _HELLO, LOS ANGELES!”_

 

“Shut _up!”_

 

“What? Just saying hi.”

 

“I can hear that. But shut up anyway. I don’t want to attract anymore attention than we’re already getting.”

 

“Aw, are you worried people are gonna talk?”

 

“Yeah, kind of! So shut up.”

 

“You know, if the internet could see the two of us like this it would have fits. Oh, wait, it already has! Hi, Reader!”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. There it is with the stupid reader again. “What?”

 

“I guess we go on different websites.”

 

“I _know_ we do. What’s your homepage? YouPorn?”

 

“YouPorn’s for old farts with no lives. I like XVideos way better!”

 

“Ok, stop talking now, or I shake you off.”

 

“You wouldn’t!”  


 

“Trust me, I would. I encourage you not to push me to that point.”  


 

Deadpool laughs. “You’re so cute, Spidey!”

 

“And you heavy.”  


 

“Don’t be mean!”

 

“I’m not being mean, just calling you heavy. And by the way, if we get hit by lightning, it’s not my fault.” With the amount of the it going off now, and the fact that they are heading _up,_ the possibility isn’t unlikely. The whole situation is making el Spidey sense tingle.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll try to take the hit. I’ve got more metal on me, anyway. You’re just suit. And web shooters.”

 

“I’m pretty sure if you get hit, I’m going down with you.”

 

“I’ll be fine! Nothing like fried Deadpool to make a day. You, though… hm. Not sure you’ll recover. Sorry.”  


 

“It’s fine,” Peter grumbles under his breath, continuing the tiring trek to the top of the building. “I’m mostly worried about falling.”

 

“I’ll be the cushion. Again. You might be a little shaken up, though. Just warning you.”

 

“Hm.” Peter recalls the fall from his school’s pool, and how Wade was totally… fine. How…? He’d mentioned a healing factor recently; the boy doesn’t dare ask aboot this, just in case of offense or loss of trust.

 

Spidey sense goes off again. Dammit.

 

As the two slowly crawl past a window, people inside stare, wide-eyed and confused. Wade cheerfully waves at all of them. Peter blushes for the five millionth time over the past thirty minutes.

 

“Almost there, hold on,” he mumbles to distract both himself and Wade from the gawking office workers inside.

 

“Oh, I’m holding on, believe me. We are _high up._ I don’t think you could get out of this even mildly injured even if I were a cushion.”  


 

“You realize I still have webs, right? It’s you I’m worried about.”

 

“Healing factor! Everything’s good. Ok, I’m fine. We can both stop stressing now. Now only the stupid lightning is a problem. By the way, if we fell, could you catch me, to save the trouble of climbing all the way back up again?”

 

“…uh, sure.”

 

“Thanks, Spidey! You’re the best!”

 

“Uh huh.” Peter feels Wade squeeze him tighter with his whole body from behind, a sort of hug-like action. The boy stiffens, and coughs as they reach the last stretch of building. He clambers up onto a flatter surface, then up to the needle atop the thing. 

 

It is colder, windier, and overall a hell of a lot more dangerous up here. It takes all of Peter’s strength to stay grounded (it’s easier if he hugs the lowest point, staying on his stomach).

 

“How the hell,” he yells, over the storm, “are you supposed to get in from _here?”_

 

“Now that I think aboot it, I don’t actually know,” Wade shouts back, rolling off Spiderman, making the hero cringe. Oh, he is so close to the edge… “Whoa, look at how high up we are!”

 

“Yes, yes, I know.” Peter anxiously flinches as a streak of electricity flashes high above, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. Wade pats the needle.

 

“At least we’re not the tallest things around, eh?”

 

“Yeah, I guess. Ok, are you alright? You’re fine? I want to get off of this thing as quickly as possible. It’s unnerving, being so threatened by Mother Nature.”

 

Mother Nature protests with another clap of thunder. Deadpool laughs over the rain, looking around the top of the skyscraper for any sign of entrance. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for ride!”

 

“Again, you won’t kill anyone. Just get… whatever you have to get and leave, right?”

 

“Sure, yeah! Whatever you say, Spidey!”

 

The whole idea of Wade working with the mafia kind of bothers Peter, but he does not voice this.

 

Damn; he should probably get back and feed Ren aboot now. 

 

“Ok, good! Bye! See you, I suppose.” 

 

_Pops never said_ Spiderman _can’t see him._

 

“Yeah! Bye, Senpai! Heh, you know, I meant what I said aboot your ass.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes, waits to make sure the now-standing Deadpool will not be blown over by a particularly strong gust of wind, then retreats, leaping off the building and attaching a web to the next one over, it being much shorter.

 

When he turns next, the man is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally referenced a conversation from Ultimate Spiderman in this chapter. Why am I such a loser, pray tell?!


	15. a Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wants to read aboot snakes. Peter does not really want to deal with either Flash Thompson or Wade Wilson, but, you know. We don't always get what we want, now, do we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so uhm... my Flash is really OOC? He kinda just acts like a stereotypical bully... Oh well. That's basically what he is most of the time, yeah?

The fifteenth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on August 14, a day when the boy has made a spontaneous decision to indeed go to a nearby library and take out a book.

* * *

 

He wants to read a book on _snakes,_ and nothing else.

 

Peter has no idea how this decision came upon him, but it did, and now he is here, scouring the nonfiction section of the quaint little library in town, look for a book on all types of those scaled reptiles (that slither).

 

Peter does not know a thing aboot them but wants to. 

 

“Damn you,” he mutters to the snakes that are not real, the snakes that are indeed in the book he is searching for. This book he does not know the name of, or the author who’s written it, or really anything aboot it, other than it is aboot snakes. Snakes are cool.

 

After maybe five more minutes of Peter’s fruitless efforts, he gives up and heads to a computer to perhaps _search_ for a book on snakes. 

 

“Can I help you?” the front-desk-lady-with-graying hair asks without looking up. Peter glances at her, and shuffles awkwardly in place.

 

“Uh, no, um, thank you. I’m just… using, uh, the computer. To look for a book. Thank you.”

 

She only sighs to herself.

 

Peter makes his way to said computer, and, in the search bar, types _snakes._ Very general, very basic, but then again, so is the boy’s knowledge of the reptiles he longs to learn of.

 

Many books come up. Peter chooses the first one ( _Snake,_ by Chris Mattison), and searches for the aisle. It goes by some strange sort of code; the book is in the nonfiction section, and is therefore labeled with a list of numbers plus some capital letters. In this case, _Snake_ ’s label is 525-MATT.

 

How Peter is supposed to find this is a mystery to him. 

 

But, nevertheless, he wanders back to the nonfiction story of the library and begins the long and tedious search for 525-MATT. 

 

525-MATT is extremely difficult to find. 

 

It is frustrating Peter immensely. 

 

He figures out where the 500 section is, but has a hard time figuring out in which direction the numbers get lower or higher. Does he go up or down? Left or right? This is confusing, Peter thinks, as he (for the fifth time) spies a number he _thinks_ might be it but is actually 524. But if it is 524, then shouldn’t 525…?

 

“Ah ha!” the boy exclaims aloud, embarrassing himself (though no one is around), as he spots it: 525-MATT, sitting there, innocently, with the word _Snake_ on its cover (with a snake’s head serving as the A in the word). Peter withdraws the book from the shelf, looks it over, then stands from his crouched position to go check it out. 

 

When he stands and turns, he comes face-to-face with a familiar one that belongs to a certain Flash Thompson from a certain high school that a certain Peter Stark attends. 

 

“Crap,” Peter says aloud by accident, shakes his head quickly, then mumbles out, “Hey, Eugene.”

 

Flash’s eyes seem to glow (in anger, of course). “Hey, _Stark._ What did I say about calling me by that fuckin’ name?”

 

Peter clears his throat. “I didn’t know you went to _libraries.”_ He smirks slightly, knowing he shouldn’t make a scene (not _here_ , not now), but really, _really_ hating this guy. “Doesn’t seem like your… hm, what’s the word? Scene? Boat? Don’t you usually spend time being, er, _not smart?”_

 

Flash Thompson is not impressed. “ _You’d_ know, fucking geek,” he growls, moving closer and shoving Peter backwards. The boy only lets himself be moved slightly for the sake of not raising suspicions. Really, why can’t he just beat the crap out of him and _move on?_ Flash would know never to mess with him again. 

 

Having a secret identity is so much work, Peter thinks.

 

And it is. 

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, man, calm down,” Peter says, quietly. “We’re in a library. C’mon, think things through a bit, would you?”

 

“I _came_ here to take out a _book_ for a _project,”_ Flash informs him. “But since I’ve found _you…”_ He cracks his knuckles. 

 

_You really_ are _stupid, aren’t you._

 

“I didn’t know you actually did projects,” Peter says, in mock surprise. “I thought you’d get… er, what’s his name… that guy, Kevin? Yeah, Kevin. I thought you’d get _Kevin_ to do it.”

 

Kevin McLean is a kid in Flash and Peter’s grade who gets people to pay him to do their homework, projects, reports… all that jazz. He’s smart, and really knows how to copy your writing tone. It’s strange, and a little conspicuous, but no one blabs and teachers don’t notice. 

 

Flash laughs without opening his mouth.

 

“Very funny, Stark. Say, what are you _reading?”_ He snatches the book out of Peter’s hand (or at least attempts to), but doesn’t get it because the shorter boy has moved it to his _other_ hand. “Gimme that, twerp.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Peter apologizes profusely, switching hands again. “Are you trying to get something? I suggest you ask politely first. What’s the magic word, Eugene? Surely your mother taught you this.”

 

Flash snarls and shoves Peter again. Peter takes very few steps back; this infuriates the other boy, who swings a punch. Peter ducks.

 

“Dude, really?” he demands, offended. “We’re in a _library._ Can’t we, you know, act civilized and take this outside or something? Or maybe not fight at all?”

 

“You little fucker,” Flash says, in a sort of amused voice. “Acting so cocky here. No girlfriend to save you this time.”

 

Speaking of girlfriend, Peter still hasn’t heard from Gwen. He’s getting slightly worried.

 

The boy lets himself be shoved again. 

 

“Why? Just… _why?”_ Peter laughs. “It’s… c’mon. _Library,_ man. _Library.”_

 

_“_ Don’t you _man_ me, Stark,” Flash kicks at Peter’s shin, which moves backwards just in time. 

 

“Don’t you _kick_ me, Thompson.” Peter is fully aware that this is only making the guy angrier, and if he simply let Flash punch him a few times he’d go away. 

 

But of course Peter values his dignity too much for that.

 

A sudden wave of Spidey-sense washes over his head all at once, making the boy startle suddenly. Flash uses the distraction to his advantage, leaping at Peter and tackling him to the roughly-carpeted floor.

 

_What is it?_

 

Peter disregards the punches he gets to his face, instead attempting to concentrate on what set off the present ringing in his head. Though, really, from his angle, the boy cannot actually _see_ anything properly.

 

He catches a punch, pushes Flash backwards, then gets shoved in return and jabbed at once more. His book skitters across the aisle, sliding to a stop near someone’s foot. Peter stiffens.

 

_Snake_ is kicked back over to him; he grabs it and leaps back. Flash, seemingly blinded by whatever fury’s gotten into him, snatches onto Peter’s ankle. 

 

“Flash! Calm the hell down, would you?” He tries to say this quietly; they _are_ still where they are, after all. “Stop it! Beat me up at school!”

 

“You… you little fucker! You know what? You…” Flash bares his teeth, Peter eyes him coolly. This seems to only fuel the guy more; he throws rapid (painful) punches at Peter’s calf. 

 

“Hey hey hey, _stop,”_ the boy yelps, yanking his leg away, then watching as the offender stands… no, wait. He doesn’t _stand._ He’s _dragged._

 

Him. _Him._ Why? Every time. Just… every fucking time.

 

“Why don’t you leave the poor kid alone?” 

 

Flash spins around, wrenching his collar out of Wade’s hand. “Who the hell are _you!?”  
_

 

“Just a concerned citizen,” the man answers, shrugging. “Now go on. Go away! Leave him alone!”

 

“Mind your own fucking business, freak!”

 

“Now who’re you calling a freak? That’s not very nice, the last time I checked.” Deadpool reaches out and gently pushes Flash back, leading him to another section of the library, across the way.

 

People glance over strangely as the two emerge from the hidden aisles behind the bookshelves.

 

Peter groans and covers his face with both hands, standing and shouldering his fallen bag. He begins the march over to Wade Asslick Wilson, reaching the man just after Flash has been escorted on and out of the library (with much loud protest; they are told to shut up by some lady person). 

 

When Wade turns back around, he is met with one of his favorite Peter-punches (to the nose), making a noise of surprise upon impact and looking at the boy in great betrayal.

 

“Hey! You’re no better than him!”

 

Peter ignores the stares piercing his back and head and face, stepping very purposefully over to the counter and self-checking out his book (on snakes) then exiting (also purposefully) around Wade. He is practically fuming, glasses askew and jacket rumpled. Flash is standing out by his car, glaring in his direction; Peter flashes a death-resulting look back. Flash promptly flips him off.

 

“Well, a hearty hello to you too, Parker!”

 

“Go away.”

 

“Why? You should thank me. I saved you. You’re welcome.”  


 

“You can stop following me now.”

 

“I wasn’t! I was looking for a book.”

 

“And you’re telling me this was _another_ coincidence? That we just _happen_ to keep running into each other?” 

 

“Uh, yeah. Is that not reasonable?”  


 

“No, actually. It’s not!”

 

Peter can feel Flash’s gaze boring into the back of his head, and mutters profanity under his breath, unlocking his car from a distance. 

 

“You on your period or something?”

 

“Do you want another punch? Because you’re _really_ asking for one right now.”

 

“The other one kind of hurt.”  


 

“ _Good!”_ Peter yanks the driver’s door open and slides in, slamming it behind him. “I hope it hurts until you _fucking die._ Now stop stalking me, and go back to whatever you used to do before you started ‘saving’ me from bullies that I can easily take care of.”

 

There is a pause as Peter starts up the car.

 

“Wait, Parker. That whole paragraph there didn’t really make sense… was it supposed to make sense? Because it didn’t.”  


 

“Shut up, Wade!” Peter rolls his window up. “Good-bye, Wade!”

 

“Bye, kid. See you sometime! You know, you really should learn to defend yourself. Ever thought of learning to shoot? Or perhaps take karate? Anything would do.”

 

“Shut _up.”_ Peter pulls out of his parking space and begins to drive down the parking lot, chucking _Snake_ into the backseat. He checks to make sure Wade has stayed put out the rearview mirror; of course, he is gone.

 

Isn’t he always?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that this chapter is really short. Like, REALLY short.
> 
> Don't worry, the next one's REALLY long. Trust me... It took me forever to write, but it was worth it! I'm pretty sure you lovelies will like it; it's got a LOT of unnecessary Spideypool.
> 
> (But also because it's long, it'll take forever to edit it and proofread. Just a warning!)


	16. a Storage Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Usually, when Peter fights crime, he does it alone. This little adventure with Deadpool reminds him why this is the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW!! Well, here it is, folks, one of those really long exciting chapters, kinda like the Mountains one, but with Spiderman and Deadpool instead of Peter and Wade. If there ever was a difference... ^^; Not gonna lie, I really like this chapter. It was probably one of the most fun to write!

The sixteenth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on August 18, the first time the two actually team up _willingly._

* * *

 

“Remind me again why I agreed to this,” Spiderman mutters, as he scales the wall of an old abandoned office building (not cliche at all, heheh), fingertips pressing into the brick surface firmly, slowly moving him and the Deadpool clinging to his back up slowly. “Remind me again why once wasn’t enough.”  


 

“Well, obviously, because you love me!” Wade chirps, nuzzling his face between Peter’s shoulder blades; the boy shakes him off. “You love helping me, and love seeing me, and love letting me touch you all over…”

 

“Shut up, would you? Dammit.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. Thought my foot slipped.”

 

“Your foot doesn't just _slip,_ dude. You’re fucking _Spiderman.”_

 

“Yes, I know. Shut up. I’m fine now.” The two reach a shattered window, and Peter climbs in; allowing Wade to topple off his back onto the unsteady boards sufficing (not really) as the floor for this unsteady story of the building. “Ok. We’re in. Now what?” The boy stays clung to the wall, as he does not exactly trust the surface Deadpool is delicately perched on. Holes are abundant in it, and it creaks with every each movement. 

 

It is a Tuesday, way past Peter’s bedtime (it is three twenty-two, exactly), and yet here he is, in the outskirts of Skid Row with Wade fucking Wilson, risking his life for a cause he does not even fully understand yet. All he knows is that this time it’s not for the mafia, and that’s always a plus. Wade had said that it was genuinely good, something a hero like Spiderman would do too if they'd known aboot it.

 

Peter really hopes he’s telling the truth.

 

The two had run into each other (surprise, surprise) much earlier in the night, in the middle of a robbery. Spiderman had been preventing this certain robbery, and had just finished, when Deadpool showed up requesting (more like begging for) help; Peter obliged. He still feels a little bad for the library incident, abandoning Wade in the parking lot like that, especially with all those angry words behind with him. Though, of course, _Spiderman_ can’t apologize, so he hadn’t, and had simply followed the other man, all the way out here.

 

Apparently the people living in this building need to be arrested for murder, and because the police are “incompetent little swines” (Wade’s wording), Deadpool had been hired to arrest them for them. Or, at least, lead the police to them. He’d wanted Spiderman’s help because of the whole building-climbing thing, and because of the fact that Peter has webs (very good for tying people up with and then calling the police while they’re secured). Apparently Wade is not allowed to _kill_ them, always a reassurance.

 

Wade won’t _tell_ Peter who these people _are,_ but the boy suspects it’s the group he’s been hearing aboot on his police scanner.

 

Deadpool giggles. “You look so awesome, stuck to the wall like that!”

 

Peter swallows down annoyance as best he can. “Um, thanks.” He pauses, and looks at Wade expectantly. “So…?”

 

“I like your ass.”  


 

“I know. You told me earlier, when we were climbing. Remember?”

 

“Yeah, I’m just telling you again.”

 

“Keep your voice down, would you? I thought we were supposed to be _catching criminals._ Criminals that apparently _know_ how to commit crime.”

 

“Oh, yeah, that.” Wade coughs, then begins to the walk southward, down the side of the building, keeping close to the walls. Peter crawls along, slightly higher than where the man’s head is, a bit ahead. “First we gotta find them, eh? Your Spidey-sense telling you anything?”

 

Peter glances back sharply. “How do you know about that?”

 

Deadpool snorts. “Dude, it’s fucking _shiny._ I’m surprised not _everyone_ knows aboot it.”

 

“You can _see_ it?”

 

“Hm. Sometimes. It’s all loud and high-pitched, right? Yeah. And it sparkles all yellow.”

 

Spiderman stares, self-consciously bringing a hand to the side of his head before clearing his throat and continuing on. “O-ok then. U-um…”

 

“So? Is it going off? It’s not, right?”

 

“N-no… they must not be around here.” This isn’t exactly true; this entire place is setting off Spidey-sense, but that’s the case with all atmospheres like this. There isn’t anything… specific. Yet.

 

“Dammit. You think they left already?”

 

“How would I know? This is _your_ mission. I’m just… We’re just teaming up.”

 

“Ooh, _teaming up._ I like that. We should do it more often! We make quite the awesome team, I’d say, don’tcha think?”

 

“Uh, sure.” Peter looks out over the crumbling warehouse; the two are in what looks like the remains of a very large storage area, with a few windows, a door on the far side of the room, and columns (most broken) scattered around the place. Wood planks lie everywhere. “Ok, so uh, they’re definitely not here. Want to try a downstairs? Or upstairs? I dunno. I don’t usually… do this sort of stuff.”  


“You should. It’s fun.” They continue sneaking, voices and heads equally low. A floorboard creaks; Peter cringes.

 

“Don’t do that.”

 

“What? I’m sorry. I can’t _climb walls_ like you, _Spiderman.”_

 

Spiderman rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I know. I’ve _noticed.”_ He and Deadpool reach a large pair of double doors; Peter elegantly launches himself off the bricks, landing on his feet. Wade pushes open the doors.

 

They face yet another room, this one larger. The floor feels sturdier, so Peter walks with Wade for this stretch. Both beings are unbearably uneasy, glancing around and on guard to their fullest, quiet footsteps echoing throughout their own heads.

 

“I feel like this is the part where we hold hands,” Deadpool whispers loudly at the room’s halfway point. Spiderman causally moves away.

 

“Uh, no thanks.”

 

“C’mon, you feel it too,” the man coos playfully, nudging Peter’s shoulder, which stiffens. “The dark, quiet atmosphere, two lone very attractive guys walking side-by-side, breathing in sync…”

 

Peter makes a point to exhale when Wade inhales.

 

“You don’t even know what I look like,” he snaps, beginning to regret this decision of LET’S HELP DEADPOOL YAY. “I don’t know what _you_ look like.”

 

“Exactly. Fair trade.”

 

“No, not that. You don’t have any idea of how attractive I am. What if I’m disgustingly ugly? You can’t say ‘two lone very attractive guys’, because it wouldn’t be true.”

 

Something in Peter’s mind tingles, and he perks, slowing his pace. 

 

Oh, crap. 

 

They’re here, aren’t they?

 

Apparently Wade does not notice anything, because he continues talking. 

 

“Oh, trust me, Spidey, you can’t be much uglier than me. If you were… damn, I’d consider some sort of surgery treatment or something if I were you.”

 

“Shut up.” Peter shoves Deadpool into a wall, reaching up and covering his mouth with one hand. “Shut _up…”_

 

Wade looks down at him amusedly; the boy can feel his breath on his hand, coming out in quiet, unintelligible words. Spiderman musters the meanest glare he can and throws it at the opposing man, hoping it shows through the mask; this one looks almost always like it’s glaring anyway… Peter supposes that’s a plus.

 

Peter’s heartbeat pounds in his throat and brain and chest loudly, and the ringing in his ears is almost deafening. Wade seems to sense the tenseness of the situation; Peter feels him shut up.

 

Where the hell are they? _Where are they?_

 

There is absolutely silence. Peter removes his hand from Deadpool’s mouth, glancing at him to make sure he stays shut up (he does) before turning himself around and scouring the area, letting his eyes eat up as much of the scene as possible.

 

He cannot see or feel a soul. Yes, he _senses_ one… many, actually. It’s… unnerving. Are they watching him? Are they whispering amongst one another? 

 

_Where are they?!!?_

 

Someone, off above Peter and Wade, pulls a trigger.

 

They have less than a second to react, and react they _do._ The latter sticks an arm in front of the former’s face, who ducks faster than he has ever attempted to duck before. The bullet hits Deadpool’s extended forearm with a splat-noise.

 

“Dammit, Wade!” Peter hisses, feeling his heartbeat pick up. His gaze is set from where the shot had come from, searching for the hidden shooter. “Stop doing that! I have reflexes too, you know!”

 

“Yeah, gotta get used to that.” Wade inspects the bullet in his arm, digs around and pulls it out. Peter pretends not to notice as it clatters past his feet, bloody and smashed.

 

Another gunshot rings out. This bullet flies past Peter’s face as he dodges just in time, rolling behind a pillar. Wade hides behind one besides the boy’s, peeking out, almost annoyed.

 

“I didn’t think they’d have _guns._ Much less actually know how to _snipe.”_

 

“This complicate things?”

 

“Oh, you betcha.”

 

“By how much?”  


 

“Take the trouble we were having earlier and multiply that by three.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A bullet skims past Wade’s pillar, embedding itself into the wall. 

 

“Well, we’ve got to act quickly, don’t we?” Peter demands. “They’re probably calling in all their fighter people.”

 

“Aw, we woke them. How sad. Ok, so how do you wanna go aboot this? Draw them to us or vice versa?”

 

“I… I don’t fucking know!”  


 

“Ok, then, I choose!”

 

“N-no, wait-“

 

Wade leaps out from behind his pillar with a loud cry of YAR, beginning to wave his arms in the air wildly, screaming profanity and insults and whatever else he can think of.

 

Peter stares.

 

Several shots are heard; the boy watches this time and places exactly where they’d come from: up in some little alcove by a window. Deadpool laughs and dodges every single bullet with a elaborate sequence of strange dance moves, sort of like breakdancing.

 

Peter assumes that this is supposed to be a distraction, so he peeks out from his column with a large intake of breath and shoots two well-aimed webs upwards to where he sees the barrel of the gun. They both catch on; Peter yanks. The gun flies back towards him and the boy catches it. The bullets stop. So there _was_ only one gunner. Where are the others?

 

“Yay! You did it!” This is Wade, who draws shotgun pistols of his own and points them up to the alcove, firing a few rounds. “THOSE WERE WARNING SHOTS! SHOW YOURSELF!” Pause. “PLEASE!”

 

“Shut, up, Wade.” Spiderman puts the gun down and rejoins with the man, webbing himself to the ceiling, which he grabs onto and looks over the room upside down. In the alcove, there is a man, pointing a pistol at him.

 

“Oh, you’ve got more?” Peter asks, dodging a bullet. Damn, jumping around on ceilings is a lot harder than rolling around on floors. Stupid gravity. He lets a few shots skim past him before approaching in the most spider-like way he can manage, to the man’s admittedly terrified-looking face.

 

“What are you?!” 

 

Peter is mildly surprised that this guy doesn’t know who he is. He looks foreign, maybe that’s it. “I’m Spiderman, buddy. Down there is my, er, partner Deadpool. We’re here to… to make sure you don’t kill anymore people.”

 

“Is he there?” Wade calls from below, looking around. “Hurry it up, would you? I think I hear his friends.”

 

“You’re the police!” the man stutters out, firing again; Peter moves.

 

“Uh, yeah, sure. In bright red spandex suits.” He takes the pistol with one swift wrist movement, tossing it down to Wade, who catches it.

 

“Ooh, free weapons!”

 

“I’m gonna stick you to that wall, alright? It’s not gonna hurt. Promise.” Peter does just this, one-handed (because the other needs to secure himself on the ceiling), securing the protesting man to the brick wall behind him. “There. See? That wasn’t so bad. Now just… wait for the police, I guess. Thank you for your cooperation.” Spiderman then proceeds to lowering himself down, back to the ground, where he can actually _stand_ correctly.

 

Spidey-sense goes off a few times, and the boy winces.

 

“God. Where are the other ones? This guy took long enough.” He stiffens as footsteps ring out, behind the nearby door. “ _Wade.”_

 

“Hey hey hey, I’m _thinking.”_ Deadpool waves one gun in the air, spins in a delicate circle, then snickers. “How aboot we just fight ‘em? You know, take them out. Tie them up. It’ll be easy.”  


 

“Not if they _all_ have guns!”  


 

“Not a problem. I’ll protect you if you can’t dodge!” 

 

“Wade!”  


 

“They’re in here! I heard the gunshots!” This comes from beyond the door, from Peter and Wade’s left. Both glance over in that direction.

 

“Wade, what are you doing? If you don’t speak up I’m leaving.”

 

“Then let’s fight them!”

 

The double doors smash open, and a group of what must be at least five (extremely huge) men, each toting a firearm of some sort, barge in, all yelling and shouting orders.

 

Peter notes that they’re all as large as Wade, which is a problem because Peter himself is a lot _smaller_ than Wade. 

 

“Well, look at what you’ve done,” he mutters. Deadpool glances at him apologetically. 

 

“You two! Freeze! Drop your weapons! You’re outnumbered!”

 

“I can see that,” says Wade, keeping his guns very firmly in his hands, holding them up. “But I’ll bet all of you that me and Spidey can kick y’all’s asses. Wanna try?”

 

“W-Wa…- _Deadpool._ Stop. _Stop it.”_ Peter nudges the man harshly in the ribs. “Put your guns down.” He lowers his voice. “We’re not supposed to kill them, remember?”

 

“Who said anything aboot injuring, though? We can still shoot ‘em in the leg or whatever.”

 

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

 

Wade looks and sounds disappointed, like a child just having been told he cannot take all the toys he’s selected from the shelf home with him. “ _All_ of them?”

 

“Yes, Deadpool. All of them.” This is Spiderman. Said Deadpool very reluctantly holsters his shotguns. 

 

“ _Drop_ your weapons, or we shoot!”  


 

“B-but… I…” Wade looks from Peter to the man speaking with an expression of pure betrayal, then glances from each of the other five men to the next, sighing loudly. “You’re all no fun.”

 

“Don’t mind him,” Peter says loudly. “He’s… got… He’s got a condition. It’s called, er, insanity.”

 

Wade giggles. “Like floating on air!”  


 

“Um, yeah. Exactly.”

 

The men (now having formed a circle around the two dudes in spandex), look a little confused, and give each other intense stares. 

 

“Hey, Spidey,” Wade says, grabbing the boy’s arm and pointing to one of the men brandishing a pistol. “Doesn’t that guy kinda look like Woody from Toy Story, if you look closely enough?”

 

Peter swallows as the guy glares back at them, cocking his gun. “Um, sure. I dunno. Maybe?” He hasn’t exactly watched Toy Story in a while. “Er, Wade,” this is said in a whisper, “maybe we should do something now. These guys kind of look like they want to eat us.”  


 

“Ha! I’d like to see them try!” Peter cringes; Deadpool has shouted this out loud. “C’mon, bro! You wanna fight? Let’s go!”

 

“ _Wade…”_

 

The Woody man fires; Wade dodges, laughing: “That’s the best you’ve got?”

 

A different man (behind Peter and Wade) whistles sharply, and, without hesitation, all six gunners shoot at their prey amongst them in sync.

 

Peter yelps, and, with the help of Spider-senses, manages to move his shoulders and head out of the way for every single bullet. The same can be said for Deadpool, who is still chortling like this is all a big joke. Which it isn’t. Obviously.

 

“Ooh! They think they’re so cool, with their organized shooting, amirite, Spidey? Heh. Gotta do better than that, losers!”  


 

“Dammit, Wade, _shut up.”_

 

Wade draws both of his swords threateningly, and waves them around a bit. “Try shooting me _now,_ and see what happens.”

 

And, oh, yes, how they try. And, oh, yes, how they _fail._ Deadpool blocks every shot with his katanas, which seem to flash around faster than Peter can see; it is only a blur of silver metal to him.

 

Fucking hell, Wade.

 

Peter again dodges a bullet that threatens to pierce his shoulder, then another one at his leg. 

 

“See? You can’t touch me and Spidey.”

 

“Wade, shut up. Really. You’re just making them angrier.”

 

“Oh, am I? Ha!” Deadpool suddenly leaps forward and slashes one of the men blocking their path in the chest, making both him and Peter cry out; the former falls to the floor and a flurry of bullets is engaged.

 

Peter dodges. Wade dodges. Wade grabs Peter’s arm and hightails it out of there.

 

Well, not exactly. They really just leave the room, with the gunman following, leaving discarded shotgun shells and bullets in their wake.

 

“Wh-what the hell are you doing?!” Peter yanks himself away from Deadpool and runs besides him; they travel at aboot the same pace. “Why did you… you… where _are we going?!”_

 

“Just roll with it! I have a plan!” 

 

One of the men chasing them barks something in another language, and Peter hears the group split up; “Dammit, Wade! They _know_ this building! We don’t!”  


 

“I have a _plan,_ Spidey!”

 

“For some reason I don’t trust you _or_ it!”  


The two charge down the hallway, and, almost instantly after Peter has shouted out, one of the men (a big, surly black-haired one) appears around the corner in front of them, yelling for them to stop.

 

Both Peter and Wade skid around for a second before making a hasty turn down a different hallway. 

 

“Why are we running? We should be fighting!” Wade demands of Peter, who gives him a bewildered, slightly angry look.

 

“ _Why?!_ WHY?! This is _your_ plan!”

 

“Oh, right. Uh… Plan B?”

 

“Fucking hell, Wade!” 

 

“Sorry?”  


 

Peter ducks under a bullet, then leaps onto the wall to dodge another. “Split up. You go that way and I’ll go this way. It’ll be harder to catch us.”

 

“Aye aye, Spidey!”

 

The two, at the next fork, move in opposite directions; Peter right and Wade left. The shouts echo frustratedly behind them, footsteps ringing louder and louder in everyone’s ears. Spider-sense is going nuts, and the source of it is getting more and more antsy.

 

“Fucking bastards!!”

 

“The tall one went this way.”

 

“What about the freaky one?!”  


 

Spiderman can hear his own heartbeat with each step, panting at every beat. He stays close to the wall, winding throughout the many pale hallways.

 

_This place, it’s a maze._

 

He practically flies up a staircase, then bursts loudly into a room packed full of cubicles. The boy ducks into one, managing to hide behind one of the walls (on his right) just as three of the gunmen murderer people enter, barking and yelling at each other. Peter cannot place the language.

 

“Search over there!” one says in English, and Peter sucks in a breath, standing stiffly and staring at another door on the other side of the room, opposite the one he’d come in from. It is slightly ajar, seemingly mocking the boy, as if to say _haha, you can’t leave. They’ll see you! Hehe._

 

No, but the Amazing Spiderman is thinking of a different tactic. He climbs a bit upward; the group is not looking his way. They are checking cubicles on the other end; Peter assumes they will come look around his soon. He must act quickly, or face the consequences.

 

The boy crawls back down, turns to the door, and takes another deep breath. He is on the side of the cubicle so if the men run past him _towards_ the door, they will not see him. Peter extends a wrist, sticks out two fingers and a thumb, and lets the web shoot forward to the door, allows it to stick for perhaps a second or two, then yanks, withdrawing the white strand just before the door slams shut (so none will know where it had come from).

 

The sound echoes throughout the dark room; everyone swivels around to stare at it. 

 

“There, there, _over there!”_

 

All four men stampede past, reloading and cocking guns. The second they’ve exited the room, Peter leaps out and barrels back out of the room, back the way he’d came and back down the stairs. Where the hell is Wade!? The boy spots an open window; a warm draft blows through it, tempting him. He could leave now, just… _leave._ Leave this and Deadpool and whatever other problems are coming from this stupid mission.

 

But, of course, Peter’s kind heart disallows this to happen, so he turns and dashes down past a bunch of doors. One slams open and a hand reaches out, grabbing Spiderman’s arm and tugging him inside. The boy dodges, but the hand is quick too; both end up slamming into a wall inside the room. The door shuts behind them.

 

Peter, in a panicked fury, punches and kicks and webs as much as he can, annoyed that this idiot had managed to catch him. They appear to be in a supply closet of some sort; therefore, it is very small, barely large enough to fit both scuffling beings. It is dark, cramped, and claustrophobic. Luckily, Peter is not as such.

 

His punches keep getting caught, though, and kicks evaded. The boy manages to sneak a few in, however, and a few sticky traps too.

 

“Wh-what is this? What?! Holy fuck, _Spidey?!”_

 

Peter startles, freezes for a second, then gropes around for a light switch or pull-string. He finds one of the latter, yanks it; nothing happens. He reaches out and shoves the man in front of him. 

 

“WHAT THE HELL.”

 

“Whoa, Spidey!” Wade struggles with the layer of webs coating his face and chest, ripping the strands off and tossing them aside. “I’m sorry! I didn’t think it was you, man. Sorry.”

 

_“Wade!_ I thought you were one of the-“  


 

“Yeah, I know! I thought you were Woody.”

 

“I’m wearing spandex!”

 

“So am I!”

 

“Keep your voice down, would you?!”  


 

“Why don’t _you?”  
_

 

Both pause, panting heavily and glaring at each other in the dark.

 

“Let’s not fight,” Wade sighs, leaning back and crossing his arms, which smash into Peter’s torso. There’s hardly enough room for this. 

 

“Fuck you. Let me out of here.” Peter reaches for the doorknob, only to have his hand slapped away. “Let me _out.”_

 

“No. We should stick together.” Snicker. “Ha! _Stick_ together? Get it! Because of your webs-“

 

Spiderman kicks Deadpool in the shin. 

 

“Hey! What was that for?”

 

“I’m not sticking us together, you pervert!”

 

“I never suggested that. That was _all_ you. Heh, getting kinky, now, are we?”

 

“Shut _up,_ Wade,” Peter growls, hands clenching into fists and wishing he wasn’t wearing a suit so he could dig his nails into his palms. 

 

“You’re just like Parker,” Wade pouts. “It’s adorable.”

 

“I don’t know or care who Parker is,” is the boy’s answer, “but he can go fuck himself.”  


“Ooh. He should. I’d watch that.”

 

Peter stares in utter disbelief (with some disgust), and snarls. If only Wade knew he is _talking_ to dear Parker at this exact moment… “So you’re a _gay_ pervert.”

 

“Eh. I like to think of myself as pan. It suits me better.” A few crinkles appear in the man’s mask. “What aboot you? What’s your… _sexuality?”  
_

 

“Uh,” says Peter, resisting the extremely strong urge to throw another kick. “I’m straight. Like… most people.” He _is._ He has a _girlfriend._ Who hasn’t talked to him in a while. Peter pushes this thought out of his mind.

 

“Now, see, that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

 

“But it’s _true.”_

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, sweetcheeks.”

 

“‘Sweetcheeks’.”

 

“Yes. Sweetcheeks. Got a problem, bub?”

 

“‘ _Bub’.”_

 

“You really don’t like nicknames, do you?”

 

“No, I don’t, actually. ‘Spiderman’ itself will suffice.”  


 

“But it’s so _awkward,_ isn’t it? Like, you don’t call me Deadpool. You call me Wade!”

 

“Yes, but Wade is your name. My name is nothing near ‘Sweetcheeks’ or ‘Bub’.”

 

“Then what _is?”_

 

“I’m not going to _tell_ you, stupid.”

 

Deadpool sighs and shifts around, bumping Peter as he does so. A stampede of footsteps pounds past the door; both hidden glance over.

 

“So are we just… hiding?”

 

“Sure,” Wade says. “Why not? Mission aborted, eh?”

 

“But… won’t you get fired or something? Or not paid?”

 

“Don’t worry your pretty little head aboot that. I’m fine. I’ll get ‘em eventually, eh?”

 

“You… you… what do you mean?! We’re… we’re _trapped_ in a closet that you won’t let me out of, waiting for who-knows-what… what _are_ we waiting for?”

 

“Until they all leave. You’re Spidey-sense is going off pretty badly right now, I see. Poor baby.” Wade ruffles Peter’s head where his hair that is under the mask currently would be; the boy slaps him away. 

 

“Yeah. It is. And it’s going to keep doing that until I get the hell out of here, so don’t use me as a guide to see when they’re gone. This whole _building_ screams danger.”

 

“Hm. Never mind then. That was my Plan B.”

 

“How are you supposed to catch them if they get away?”

 

Deadpool winks, an action Peter cannot see clearly in the dark. 

 

“I’ve always got a plan, Spidey."  


 

“Apparently _not,_ because…” Spiderman attempts to gesture around the closet, fails because there is no room, then groans. “Great. You couldn’t have bothered to pick a larger space, could you?”

 

“Nah. I didn’t know you’d be staying with me.”  


Another person runs by the door, and both peoples inside stiffen. This itself makes Wade laugh.

 

“Aw, aren’t we the most paranoid little shits?”

 

“Uh, sure,” Peter says. He rolls his eyes, and struggles to turn around. “I don’t want to face you, so I’ll look this way, alright? It’s… awkward.”

 

“This way is even _more_ awkward,” Wade snickers from above. “I mean, now it looks like we’re gonna fuck. Which we’re not, you fucking pervert. This is only the sixteenth chapter.”

 

“…What?”

 

“Nothing, nothing. It’s all good, eh?”

 

“… Sure. I guess.” Peter shakes his head suddenly. “N-no, actually! No, it isn’t! It’s _not_ ‘all good’, ok?! Nothing happening right now is good. I _teamed up_ with you to catch criminals, not to _hide_ from them. We’re being cowards! It’s pathetic!”  


“You’re so adorable when you’re angry.”

 

Spiderman smacks the wall in front of him frustratedly. “ _Stop calling me adorable!_ I’m not cute, alright? I’m just as strong as you, and just as capable as you, and just as-“

 

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far to say _that…”_

 

“I am. I _am,_ alright?!”  


 

“Ok, ok, whatever you say, sweetcheeks. Don’t get mad at me.”

 

“I _am_ mad at you, moron!”  


 

“Hey, only I can call me a moron.”

 

Peter mutters profanity under his breath, and leans against the concrete wall irritably. He decides it would be best (most likely) to just stay shut up until Deadpool says they can leave, as to not create conflict. They’re getting a bit loud, he thinks; the murderers might find them based on their voices. That would be… a little more than embarrassing. It’d be fucking _mortifying._

 

The boy has just settled down comfortably, leaning against this very hard wall -ready to wait until Wade’s command, anyway —, when his Spider-sense tingles and he feels two large hands on his ass.

 

Peter yelps, and tries to jump away; he fails. There simply is not enough room.

 

“Wh-what the hell?!” he cries out, reaching back and moving Wade’s arms to the side roughly. “What do you think you’re doing?!?!”

 

Deadpool chuckles, and goes in for another squeeze. Peter stiffens and kicks backwards at the man’s shins. 

 

“Don’t _touch_ me, you fucking perv!” 

 

“Your _ass,_ Spidey! It really _is_ nice! No wonder I complimented it the other day. No _wonder_ I call you Sweetcheeks! Dude, your cheeks are fucking _sweet!”_

 

Peter does not try to think aboot how incredibly _wrong_ this sounds.

 

“Get _off.”_ He swings around in the cramped space and shoves at the opposing character violently so he crashes into the opposite wall. “And _stay off.”_ The boy reaches for the doorknob, only to find it locked. He does not think much of it, assuming Wade has locked it, and reminds himself to kick the guy’s ass later, after they get out of this mess.

 

Peter has a flash of well-explained paranoia; perhaps this man will try to mug him. Or kill him. Or… sexually assault him in some sort of way. He convinces himself that this assumption is wronged, but knows it is always a possibility. 

 

“Aw, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, really! I just… your _ass._ Spidey, do you not realize how incredibly… _juicy_ it is?! _Appreciate_ that ass! It is _yours._ You can win over _any_ living thing in _general_ with those pieces of firm flesh!”  


“Jesus Christ, please stop talking. _Please.”_

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You’d better be. Shut up.”

 

Deadpool then reaches _around_ the boy to touch the beautiful ass he has spoken of. This certain ass is clothed in blue spandex, which hugs his curves nicely, Wade thinks.

 

“WADE. WADE, STOP.”

 

“I’m not going to try to bang you or anything, calm down. Unless you want me to. Then something might be able to be arranged.” Wink. “Just touching your ass is fine, right?”  


 

“No, actually, it's not!” Peter grabs Wade’s forearms and shoves them away. “ _Stop touching me!”  
_

 

“Sh, sh, someone’s going to hear you, Spidey.”

 

“Let them hear! You’re fucking harassing me!”

 

“Ok, ok, I’ll stop.”

 

“You’d better! Forget it, I’m not teaming up with you ever again if _this_ is what I get!”

 

“I thought you’d be _flattered!_ I know _I’d_ be!”  


“Yeah, well, I’m not you. I’m not you, and I will never _be_ you, or _want_ to be you.”

 

“You’re so tsundere, Spidey…!”

 

“Don’t… Don’t you… _Wade…”_

 

“Aw! You’re flustered.”

 

“Shut. The hell. _Up.”_

 

“Now, that’s not very nice…”

 

“I’m not _trying_ to be nice, idiot.” Peter exhales heavily out his nose, sighing. “Sorry. You’re not an idiot.”

 

Wade cocks his head. “Strange change of attitude, I see. That’s very kind of you, but it’s ok. I’m strangely aware that I am in fact the biggest idiot that ever walked the earth. All three of us, really.”  


 

“Huh?” Spider-sense tingles violently; Peter’s head turns to glance at the door. What is it now?

 

“Nah. You wouldn’t understand.”

 

Now, however, the boy is not listening. He is focused mostly on the fact that the ringing in his ears is almost deafening, as it is when extreme danger is nearby, and that he smells something funny. “Did you lock this door?”

 

Wade looks at it. “No. It’s unlocked. Why?”

 

Peter stiffens, eyes widening. Oh, crap. “Um, no. I checked, earlier. It’s… very locked.”

 

“You sure? I’m fairly certain I didn’t lock it.” The man reaches over and twists on the doorknob, which does not budge. “Hm. I guess it jammed or something…”

 

“Or maybe someone locked us in,” Peter snaps, swallowing and again sniffing the air for whatever whiff of something he’d caught earlier. “That’s probably the more likely possibility.”

 

“You’re freaking out. Why are you freaking out? Is something wrong? How’s Spidey-sense? It doing ok?”

 

“No, actually, it’s not. It’s going crazy. _I’m_ going crazy. And I’m slightly worried because now I have no fucking clue what’s going on right now and we can’t get out of this stupid closet.”

 

“Don’t fret, sweetcheeks. I’ll get us out of here.” Deadpool steels himself, then throws himself at the door. It moves, and dents, but otherwise stays closed. “Ow. Ok, that didn’t work.”

 

“One more time should do it,” Peter suggests, only to get a look from Wade.

 

“Lemme rest a little, alright? That hurt. Sort of. Not really.” Deadpool pounds on the door with one fist. “Ew. You smell that? Stinks like barbecue.”

 

_Barbecue._

 

“Holy shit, Wade,” Spiderman mutters, and viciously begins helping with the door banging. “ _Holy shit, Wade.”_

 

“What is it? Are you claustrophobic? Do you really hate barbecue? I’m sorry if either of those things are true.”

 

“N-no! _Wade,_ it’s-“

 

“Oh, good. I don’t think we could ever speak again if you hated barbecue.”

 

“Wade, it’s not _barbecue._ It’s fucking _smoke.”_ Peter slams his shoulder into the door. It moves slightly. “ _Dammit._ Dammit dammit dammit. It’s _smoke._ They found us, locked us in, and now they’re _burning us.”_

 

Wade sounds slightly amused. “Oh, really? Damn. Pretty clever, don’tcha think?”

 

“This isn’t _funny!_ Don’t you take _anything_ seriously?! Help me break this door down!” Peter can feel heat radiating out from the other side and swallows. He glances towards the doorknob, then at the crack underneath the door, sees orange light glowing through it, and shoves himself onto the creaking obstacle once more. 

 

Wade helps, largely (he himself is very large), and with a couple more smashes, the two manage to break the door down; they go toppling with it onto the floor.

 

The entire building is on fire. 

 

“Holy shit!” Wade announces, leaping to his feet and hoisting Peter up afterwards. “They were really thorough, weren't they?”  


 

Peter silently agrees, because it is true. Flames engulf the place completely, burning the weak wooden structure of the building. The entire hallway is set to burn, orange and red torches lapping up anything they can touch, scorching carpet and wall and desk and whatever else; soon, skin will be part of their meal.

 

Peter can feel himself beginning to sweat from the intense heat he is facing. He can barely open his eyes, it is so hot, and his skin under the suit is beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. 

 

“We’re going to be cooked alive,” he shouts over the roar of the fire, “unless we do something _now. I_ definitely can’t get anywhere through this stuff, so… any plans? You said you’ve always got one.”

 

“I can charge through this no problem,” Wade says back. “What I’m worried aboot is you.”

 

Spiderman glances around for any windows nearby… nothing. Just a hallway, with no sign of the outside world in sight. “Can we afford to wait for the police and firemen?!” He feels strangely calm, even as a flame pops dangerously close to his foot. He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s aboot to die, which, honestly, he probably isn’t. Peter has been through lots of things, though “burning office building” was never one. So this is a first, the boy realizes, and notes that it isn’t pleasant, at all, and to never try this again (though, really, why would he _try_ to have this thrown upon himself?).

 

“Nah. Maybe. I dunno. Sure? You wanna? I’ll help you… not burn!” Wade steps closer to Peter and hugs him from behind, chuckling under his breath. The boy wrenches himself away.

 

“Not the time, _Deadpool._ Help me move stuff.” There really isn’t any chance of that, but whatever. Peter really needs something to say. “Maybe we can find a clear path.” 

 

“Yeah, right. In _this?_ Good luck with that.” Wade looks around. “Which way was the exit?”

 

“I came from there.” Peter points left. “But there might very well be a door or window or something the other way. I dunno. I _don’t know._ Why’re asking _me?”_

 

“Hey, hey now, it’s gonna be fine. No need to get excited. I’ll get us out of here.” Wade looks left, then right, then (under his breath) begins to chant the “eenie meenie miney mo” rhyme, pointing back and forth between both directions. Peter watches him, blinking in the bright light the flames are giving off. “ _My mother says to pick the very best one and you are not it it is not because you are ugly, it is not because you are fat, it is not because you wear a picture of the Yankees on your hat.”_

 

“Would you hurry up?” Peter snaps as a shelf nearby topples to the floor in a tangle of popping fire and smoke. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, calm it, sweetcheeks. Everything’s under control.”

 

The boy opens his mouth to retort, but coughs on a throatful of smoke that has entered his system. He wipes his face with one arm, getting ash everywhere. 

 

“Oh, dear. You okay, Spidey?” Deadpool pats his teammate’s back, then proceeds to dragging him to the right, straight into a burning bookcase. 

 

“Wade, wait, I-“

 

Wade lets go of Peter’s arm, grabs the obstacle with ease, and hoists it upwards. The flames eagerly lick at his arms and back and face, scorching the man; Peter smells burning flesh and gapes.

 

“Go! Move it! This actually kind of hurts!”

 

Spiderman dashes under the shelf, which falls to the floor as Deadpool drops it, rejoining the boy to cover him as they pass through a flaming doorway. Peter is only burned slightly, in the arm; he yelps a bit as the fire touches him. Wade quickly stifles it, pressing a single gloved hand to the wound, and shoves the smaller being into the next room. 

 

“How a-are you…?!” Peter manages through the smoke and soot in his lungs, coughing loudly. “You’re _burning…!”_ He truly is. Parts of Wade are literally aflame; the man puts them out calmly by smacking at himself and waving his burning limbs around. Peter can see the parts of exposed skin that the fire has burned into, getting rid of the suit; black and white and red flesh sizzles, as if being cooked on a grill or stove, which, the boy supposes, is almost the case.“Holy… W-Wade!”

 

“I’m _fine._ Go! Run that way!” Deadpool points down a hallway to their left, and both take off down it. He continues clearing the way for Peter, moving burning things or shielding him from the fire, keeping the boy more or less unharmed. Peter does get a few burns here and there; on his leg or arm or chest. He gags and chokes frequently, to which Wade slams a rough hand onto his back a few times, saying things like, “there you go”, or “let it out, sweetcheeks”. Peter is too stressed and delirious to protest against the nickname. He’s pretty sure the smoke is getting to his head, because he’s seeing strange things that aren’t actually there and having weird thoughts pass through his mind aboot cake and Ren and his dads and whatever else, resisting the urge to voice his thoughts. The boy feels dizzy, and often tries to topple over. Wade is always there to catch him, thankfully.

 

“Dammit. Where the hell is the fucking exit?!”  


 

“We… we… we should have lefted,” Peter wheezes out, vision blurry at this point. 

 

“We really should’ve. _Dammit!_ Ok, wait… I think it was this way…”

 

The two continue on, Peter struggling to keep up with Deadpool’s fast, never-tiring strides. He really wonders how the hell the guy isn’t becoming like himself at this point… but really doesn’t care, because, hell, he’s getting Peter _out_ of this. Sort of. 

 

At some moment in time the boy cannot place, as the two dash through what seems to be the hundredth hallway (why are office buildings such mazes?!), the ceiling collapses onto them.

 

“CRAP,” Peter hears Wade utter, then is roughly shoved down to the baked ground, the man collapsing on top of him. His arms are on either side of Peter, entire body protecting him from the falling pieces of plaster and tile that come crashing down on top of them. None of these pieces touch Peter at the slightest.

 

“Whoa,” he says breathily. “You okay?”

 

Wade grunts. “Ow. Yeah. I’m good.” He staggers upwards, shoving wooden boards and plastic tiles to the side, into other flames. He then helps Peter to his feet. “Ugh. Give me a second, alright? Thanks.”  


 

Peter swallows, puts a hand to his forehead, then glances at Wade. The man’s entire back is exposed, torn and burned. Scars that are hardly visible line his skin; from the falling ceiling, Peter assumes. He is surprised to see that Wade is not bleeding furiously. The man bends himself backwards, groaning loudly, then yanking Peter out of the way of a flame that leaps at him suddenly. The boy is surprised… stupid smoke. Must be clouding Spidey-sense or something.

 

“Dude,” Wade says, keeping Spiderman by his side. “You look… high. Or drunk. Is it the smoke or something?”

 

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe?” Peter can tell by the sound of his own voice (that speaks without permission) that it is, and that he’s extremely vulnerable right now; this concept makes the boy really uneasy. He does not like being… _vulnerable,_ in itself. It _makes_ him feel as such. It’s unnerving. Worrying. Agitating. Everything bad, really. 

 

Spider-sense weakly tingles in the back of Peter’s mind.

 

“We should leave,” he murmurs, stumbling again; Deadpool holds his arm firmly, and off they go, charging through the flames, smashing through weakening doors and desks and other… burning things… Peter really doesn’t feel quite correct. He feels sick. Dizzied. _Sick._

 

“Wade,” he gags, pulling to a stop. “Wade, I…-“

 

“Shut up, Spidey. I see a window. Let’s go. If we hurry that thing there won’t fall over it! Look, freedom!” These are uttered encouragingly, and Peter is pulled forward. “ _Spidey. Hurry up.”_

 

“I’m _trying…-“  
_

 

Wade dodges another block of falling ceiling, sweeps Peter up into his arms, and charges forward at a speed much faster than their previous one; Peter curses himself for being so slow. He curses himself for needing help at all, for letting himself be _carried,_ letting Deadpool _save_ him… He’s a _hero,_ for Christ’s sake, he _saves others,_ not vice versa! 

 

“Brace yourself,” Wade calls out loudly, leaping headfirst out the open window, soaring straight through it, sideways, little Spiderman clutched to his chest. He swivels midair so his back faces down and Peter faces upwards. The boy is reminded suddenly of that time they fell out of the pool at his school, and that feeling of hopelessness and despair as he flew downwards, stomach lurching uncomfortably. He remembers the urge to web himself to save his own grace, and has the same urge now, the same stomach lurch, but this time Peter is simply too drugged and delirious to even consider carrying out such an action, especially a serious, muscle-straining one like webbing and actually clinging onto something. The boy doubts he can hold himself up.

 

All of this seems to happen in slow motion; maybe it does. It certainly feels like it, and Peter wonders, in an act of his own nauseous state, if Deadpool has the power of slowing time (he doesn’t, of course).

 

They land with a very harsh thump, which earns a grunt from both parties. Peter, rattled but unharmed, gasps loudly for the cool, beautiful oxygen the world outside that stupid building offers, inhaling over and over, getting as much of the air into his lungs as possible, to replace that stupid, stupid smoke.

 

The building, perfectly timed, begins to collapse completely. 

 

“DAMMIT,” Wade states, shoving Peter off of him, standing, grabbing the boy again, and taking off. 

 

The weak human in the man’s arms is too tired to do anything but wrap himself around Wade’s neck and let himself be taken away, far from the orange flames that burn and scream behind them.

 

Sirens can be heard in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok lol I just checked and the next chapter's really frickin' long as well. What is this, Christmas?? 
> 
> I'm pretty sure the one after that is... long. Too. We're getting close to the end of the pre-written stuff, wow! I'm gonna actually have to start picking up my game again, haha.


	17. Peter's Room Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malibu Mansion, in which many things occur; on this fine day, there is a suspicious phone call, a breakup, a break-in, relationship discussions, an exciting vocabulary contest, and a dance competition. 
> 
> Phew! That sure was a mouthful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, remember when I said the last chapter was long? Yeah, well, this one's longer. Enjoy, my friends.

The seventeenth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on August 21, the day the boy’s love life ends and one of the best friendships of his life begins (sort of).

* * *

 

The boy, at the moment, is grounded.

Very, very grounded.

Only a few nights beforehand had been the night of that fire, the one Peter can hardly remember, he was so delusional from the smoke. After he and Wade had escaped from the scene, Peter, very embarrassingly, had thrown up all over the grass where he’d been put down, then (riskily) had lifted up his mask slightly as to breathe better.

Wade had been strangely considerate, and had not commented. He had not tried to look, or to pull up the mask; no, he had only helped Spiderman vomit (like at the cabin, in that bathroom), then waited for the boy to stop panting before turning back to him and offering him a ride home. Peter had declined.

He’d gotten home alone, wounded, and grimy, at five o’ clock in the morning on a Tuesday morning. Steve and Tony had been waiting for him, aboot to call the police.

“And now, where were you?” is basically what they’d both said at the same exact time, worded differently.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” is what came next.

Peter, really, was lost for words, though managed, croakily, “I’m… alive?”

This had enraged both parents. Tony, also, had learned that JARVIS had been keeping secrets (“No,” the robot had replied, “you simply never bothered to ask about him.”) about Peter’s many escapes from the house in the middle of the night, told Steve, and then lectured his son for many long and tedious hours, there in the living room.

And so, now, here is Peter Stark, lying flat, on his bed, staring very pointedly at the ceiling, eating celery. Without dip. Dip is unhealthy, so Steve does not buy it. It is quite a disappointment, Peter thinks.

The few minor burns he had received still reside on his arms, wrapped in bandages (courtesy of Steve). The boy eyes his closet, where his suit lies within, hidden in a box somewhere. Why. Why is helping Deadpool so… necessary? Probably because the guy would never achieve anything if he didn't have any assistance. But why does Peter care? It’s not his problem.

Peter sighs loudly for the hundredth time that day, and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He stretches, yawns, then flops back down again.

“JARVIS,” he whines.

_“Yes, Peter?”_

“I want to leave. Can I leave? I’m bored.”

_“I would advise against it, young sir; I am permitted to inform your father of all your future actions, starting today.”_

Peter groans. “Of course you are.” He lies still for a few more moments before shutting his eyes and deciding that a nap would suffice on such an afternoon like this. It is not hard to fall asleep; the boy is tired in general, from all these all-nighters he pulls for Spiderman. Plus, the day is humid and muggy, always good napping weather.

He has just drifted off, halfway to sleep, when his phone rings abruptly.

Peter’s eyes shoot open, and he webs for the device, noting the caller ID, which reads Harry. The boy raises an eyebrow. Harry never calls him in the summer. He never really calls him at all.

Peter answers cautiously, as if his phone may explode upon tapping the green button on the screen.

“Uh… hello?”

“Peter?”

“Harry? Uh, hi! It’s, uh, great to hear from you. Is… everything ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine! How are you, Peter?”

Peter swallows, and eyes the phone, Spidey-sense tingling. “I’m fine. Just hanging around. Are you alright?” He sits at his desk. There is a pause. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

  
“Are you alright?” Peter asks again, slower. Something’s up…

“Yeah, man, I’m fine. Just fine. You know, though, there is something I wanted to ask you…”  
  
“Oh, ok. What is it?” Peter scales his bedroom wall, tucking the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He ends up on the ceiling, where he crouches, and looks around. Ren wanders into the room, looks up at her owner, and barks. Said owner waves.

“Do you happen to know a fellow named Deadpool?”

Peter stiffens. Does he know? He can’t know. Peter has hung around the man himself, not just Spiderman. “Um, I guess you could say that… sort of…”

“Yeah, well, I saw you with him the other day. Who is he, Peter? I’ve never seen him before, except on the news recently. You know about this?”

“Where’d you see us, exactly?”

“The library. You didn’t see me.”

“You were there?”

“Yeah, but that’s besides the point. Didn’t he attack your school or something? Tell me stuff, buddy.”

Peter stutters uncertainly, confused at why all of a sudden Harry cares. “Uh, I don’t really know anything, really… he’s… he’s a guy in spandex. I… He…”

“It looked like you were arguing back there, Pete.” Harry’s got that tone in his voice, the accusing, mock-concerned one. “Why were you arguing? Certainly you must be his friend. Strangers don’t… argue.”

“Yeah they do,” Peter protests. “They can if they want. Who says they can’t?”

“He followed you to your damn car, Peter.”

“Can you… stop saying my name like that?”

“Like what? It’s just your name, Peter.”

Peter sighs loudly. Ren looks upwards, then turns in a circle before flopping down onto his rug contentedly.

“Look, Harry, I really don’t know anything. Really. Why do you care? You… don’t like superheroes. I mean, I’ve heard you diss Spiderman, man. I know. I can tell.” It’s a little hurtful, the way he does. Peter knows Harry doesn't mean any real harm… it’s just in his nature to criticize things that could be better (which is literally everything except himself, apparently).

“Peter?” Steve calls, approaching his son’s room. Said son glances over towards the door, which is knocked on.

“Uh, hold on, Harry,” Peter says, then, “Yeah, Pops?” Steve pushes into the bedroom; Ren bounds over to him cheerfully. The man scratches behind her ears affectionately before looking up at the boy dangling from the ceiling by his feet, phone in hand.

“Gwen’s here to see you. You wanna talk to her?”

Peter’s eyes widen. Gwen? Where the hell has she been? The boy was getting worried; calls and texts not being answered, her never being home…

“Oh, y-yeah! Of course!” He puts his phone back up to his ear, lowering himself down from the ceiling by a web. “Harry?”

“Eeyup?”

“I, um, have to go.”

“Aw, c’mon, Petey. We’ve only started talking.”

“N-no, I’m really sorry, but, er, this is important. Like, important.” Gwen is considered important to Peter, at least. “Really. I’m sorry, dude. I’ll… call you back, ok? I have to go.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. Go on, go carry out your important duties, friend.”

Peter grins. “Yeah, I will. See you.”

“And I you, peasant.”

They hang up, and Peter throws his phone onto his bed, following Steve downstairs to the front door, where a seemingly nervous Gwen Stacy stands, as pretty as ever, in the doorway, body illuminated by a ray of sunshine, piercing her from the side.

Spider-sense goes off immediately, and Peter’s heart sinks. He approaches her, trying to keep concern from his expression.

“Gw-Gwen! Long time no see…!” He laughs nervously. She does too.

“Yeah, er, hi, Peter.” She averts her gaze elsewhere. Steve senses the tenseness of the situation and exits the scene, thankfully. “Good to see you.”

“Y-yeah! Yeah! Yeah, where’ve you been? I’ve been… calling you. And stuff. I mean, I went to your house a bunch of times, and you were…”

“I wasn’t there,” Gwen finishes, stiffly. “I know. I… I tried to call you. Before I left.”

“I was on vacation. There wasn’t service… in the mountains…” Peter is thoroughly worried by now; where had she gone? Why is she acting so… stressed?

“I figured. But I tried, anyway. You know, just in case. But, anyway, um…” Gwen looks everywhere but Peter’s face. He swallows, and tentatively reaches for her hand, taking it. It lies limply in his.

A warm breeze blows past both beings.

“Gwen,” Peter states. “Gwen. What’s wrong? Is something bothering you? Is… is someone bothering you? Do you… Where did you go? Did something happen?”

  
“No, Peter.” Gwen exhales loudly, taking her hand back.

SPIDEY-SENSE. TINGLING. INTENSELY.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. Why’d you come over?”

“It’s… ok, um, Peter. There’s something really important I have to tell you before I leave, and it’s… well, it’s-“

Peter blinks. “Wh-what? Leave? What… do you mean?” Gwen looks at him, almost apologetically, and bites her lip in that adorable-pretty-sexy way she does.

“Peter, I’m moving.”

It takes Peter a few seconds to process this new wave of information. Then, once he’s got it all sorted out in his brain somewhere, says, “Oh! Oh, that’s great! Where to?” Certainly, he thinks, she must be going somewhere fairly close.

Except it isn’t. At all.

Gwen says, “New York City.”

There is a short pause as Peter processes even more waves of information. This is too much for him, it seems, and the boy is a bit overwhelmed.

“Uh,” he manages.

“Yeah… it’s… it’s… I don’t want to go, but… um, my dad. He’s this new job, you see, and-“

“Oh, no, no,” Peter cuts her off, voice sounding a bit dazed and mumbled. “No. No, Gwen, it’s… we’re… it’s… New York. That’s… that’s far, isn’t it?”

No, Sherlock. It’s the state directly besides us, not the big famous one on the other side of the country. Aren’t you supposed to be smart?

“Um, yeah,” Gwen says, almost nervously, looking at Peter like he’s grown another head or two. “Peter… are you ok? You look kind of… pale…”

“Oh, no, no,” he mutters out again, this time more rushed. “I’m… I-I’m fine. Really. I’m fine. Fine. Fine!”

“Fine…” Gwen raises her eyebrows. “Peter, it’s ok…”

“Y-y-yeah, I know! We can still keep in touch, can’t we? W-w-w-we’re… w-we’re… we… you… I…” Quite frankly, Peter is terrified. He’s not stupid. He’s not unrealistic. He knows what’s coming. They can’t possibly stay together at such a distance… especially with no frequent visits. The boy knows what to expect, yet isn’t. He really, truly isn’t. “Gwen, I…”

“Peter,” she states, lip trembling slightly. “Peter, I know.”

Peter can only stare at her blankly. Why does she have to move? Just… why? What job is so important? Can Peter go with her? He doesn’t… he thinks he loves her. He really does! He was going to reveal himself to her; now he never can, and the thought of this almost sickens him.

“Surely… surely we can try, I mean, we can’t just g-give up-“

“Peter,” Gwen begs. “Please. Don’t make this harder than it has to be, alright? I’m just as distressed as you are. I… I have to-“

“Gwen,” says Peter, except that he doesn't exactly have anything to say. The thought of Gwen Stacy, his girlfriend, kissing some other kid, makes him angry. Suddenly Peter is, and is digging his fingernails into his palms viciously. “Gwen, you can’t. You really can’t.”

“I’m leaving today,” she answers, swallowing and managing to keep a straight face. That, that right there is another thing Peter loves aboot her. She isn’t fazed. And when she is, she hides it. She stands strong. That’s why Peter believes he can tell her that he is indeed Spiderman; she won’t freak. She’ll be like how she is now, an inward mess, but her exterior is cool and composed.

And then there’s Peter, the emotional crybaby.

He refuses to. He refuses to cry in front of his girlfriend (is she really even anymore?) while she stares him down, telling him they’re done.  
  
“I-is this some cruel excuse to dump me?” Peter demands, practically shaking. He presses his arms to his sides, and feels his the web devices strapped to his wrists jab him in the hips. For some reason, this fuels the boy’s fury. “Have you been thinking of this for a while now? Did this just come across conveniently and you just… you just thought: ‘h-hey! Look! I’m moving! I can dump that lame Peter guy now!’”

This seems to tip Gwen a little bit farther over the edge, because her eyes redden. Peter knows his own are such a color.

“No, Peter, that’s not-“

“It’s ok. I get it. I’m a loser. It’s… it’s a pretty well-known fact. I’m not taking it personally. I-I’m sure all the New York guys are pretty damn cool. Am I right? They’re… they’re…”

Peter does not mean any of these things, and knows it. Then, he asks himself, why does he keep talking? Why doesn’t he just give her a hug goodbye and get over it? It’s not like they’d been dating for very long… Though, at their ages, a little over a year is a pretty long time.

“Peter, you’re being a jerk!”

He knows it. He knows it. He really should shut up and stop acting like a dick.

“N-no. I’m not the jerk here. Don’t you dare call me the jerk here!”

  
“You’re not, really. Please, Peter, I’m not saying that. I’m not suggesting any of the crap you just said! I get that you're upset, and trust me, I am too! Really! Believe me, this isn't pleasurable for me either!”

Gwen is moving. She’s really… moving. Away. Very far away.

“B-but,” Peter says, pitifully. “But I love you.”

Gwen blinks, because this is the first time he’s said it. He’s been waiting, she’s been waiting, for the appropriate time, and this… this really isn't it. This is when he decides to tell her this, right when it really doesn't matter. At all. It doesn’t matter, Peter.

It doesn't matter.  
  
Suddenly Peter isn’t that angry anymore.

He steps forward and pulls Gwen Stacy into a hug.

This is when the dam breaks, and she cries. She wraps her arms around his neck and cries into his shoulder. He himself lets tears dribble down his face as he stares at the calm, sunny atmosphere of Malibu Point behind them… the seagulls, the sand, the sun, the ocean… Where Gwen’s going she won’t see any of this. Maybe she’ll see a river or… or the Atlantic Ocean but… but it’s not the same. It’s not like California. It’s not like the beach.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Gwen says. “I’m so sorry.”

“No. I’m sorry. For flipping out. I… I shouldn't have.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she agrees, then, quickly afterwards, “Sorry.”

“No. It’s ok.”

Their embrace lingers for a few moments longer; Gwen breaks it, gently, and Peter reluctantly obliges.

“I have to go now,” she informs him, without making any move to.

“Okay,” Peter answers. They both continue standing and awkwardly staring at each other.

“I guess this is goodbye then,” Gwen says at the same time he mumbles out, “I suppose you should go?” They look at each other and kind of smile. They are soft smiles. Happy smiles. Smiles that are accepting their fates and moving on. Sort of. Peter’s definitely not over this yet.

“Bye,” they both say. They both laugh nervously. Peter swallows.

“Don’t… d-don’t get someone else t-to soon, alright?” he asks.

She chuckles. “Of course not, Peter.” He stares at her (she’s so, so pretty), and sighs.

She’s perfect. She’s simply perfect, and now she’s gone. He had her, he was dating her, and now she’s… gone. Why? How can she be? Peter had been sure that she was the one, even at their ages… he would've readily married her if an occasion that demanded such an action ever arose (which he highly doubted would happen, but still), and he was fairly sure she would comply.

Not anymore, however. Now… now she is leaving.

“Are you sure this doesn't have anything to do with y-your… parents?” Peter asks tentatively; Gwen’s father isn't the most fond of his daughter’s choice of boyfriend. Peter himself isn't sure why, but he does know that Mr Stacy has something really big against Spiderman, and considering Peter is Spiderman, if he ever got found out everything would go kind of shitty.

“Oh no, Peter, it’s not… I know my dad isn't the most trusting and whatever, but this isn’t because of you. It’s the job. My dad got a job in New York, and it pays a lot better than his salary here, so…”

“Oh.” Peter isn't sure what he wants from her now, and really shouldn't keep her, but… he doesn't exactly want to let go just yet. This is presumably the last time he’ll actually see her, after all, and he wants to get one last good look at her. “So, um… I…”

“L-look, I have to go, alright? But I’ll call, ok? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll call you. I’ll text you. Email.”

“Ok,” Peter says, because he knows she won’t. She knows it, and she knows he knows, and she knows he won’t either, and this really is simply goodbye.

“Take care of yourself, Peter,” Gwen murmurs, smiling a genuine one up at him; he returns it weakly.

“Y-you too, Gwen… Heh, this happened really… suddenly, didn't it? This… thing. We’re… we’re breaking up!”

She cocks her head. “Yeah… yeah, I guess we are. It’s…”

“You have to go,” Peter quickly cuts in as he spots Gwen’s parents driving up slowly in their car. A moving truck slowly chugs by on the road.

“Gwen!” her mother calls, to which she turns, blonde bob swinging.

“Coming!” Gwen looks back at Peter with another small smile and a, “Bye, Peter.”

“B-bye,” Peter manages.

“You got a dog,” she comments as she spots Ren, who’s wandering around in the background, apparently not caring that her territory has a visitor.

“Uh, y-yeah. She’s… she’s Ren. You… Gwen… I…”

“Gwen!”

“One second!” Gwen gives another brief hug to her now-ex boyfriend, backing up a few steps. “So… are we…?”

“Yeah, we’re done,” Peter says, then, after a pause, “Y-you’re still the prettiest girl I know.”

She blushes. “And you’re still the dorkiest guy I know.”

They grin at each other before she departs, trotting away down to her car, tears dried and smile apparent. Her parents are looking at her carefully as she gets into the car; it pulls away from the curb the second her door closes. Gwen does not look back.

Peter stares after her until he definitely cannot see the Mercedes anymore before shutting the door firmly.

Ren walks over and nuzzles his hand. Peter bends down and scratches her ears.

“Hey, Pete,” Steve greets as he enters the room again, faking a smile. He hasn’t eavesdropped (Captain America is too good for this), but can tell something’s wrong. “How’d it go? How’s Gwen?”

Peter looks up at his father, standing and making his way over to the stairs. “It… she… she’s fine, Pops. Everything’s fine.” He knows he’ll have to tell his dads eventually, but not right now. He knows that Steve and Tony like Gwen, and really doesn't feel like discussing his feelings with them at the moment.

Wow. Moved. She’s moved. That’s so… weird.

“You sure? You can tell me anything,” Steve says, worriedly. Peter sighs, and gives him a reassuring smile.

“I know, Pops. And thanks so much for that, but everything’s fine, really. We’re good! She just came by to… tell me something.”

“What was it?”

“Pops.”

“Alright, sorry, just curious. You should invite her over for dinner sometime soon. I’ll make pot roast!”

Steve’s pot roast isn't especially good but he puts in the effort, so Tony and Peter (and whoever else happens to be eating it at the moment) compliment it anyway.

“Th-thanks… I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.” The boy quickly scurries away to his room before Steve can question him any further, darting into his room and shutting the door behind him.

Well.

Peter sticks a strand of web to the ceiling and raises himself upwards with it, crouching on the ceiling like before and contemplating life.

So, this is what breakup feels like. It's not very pleasant, he must say, though not as bad as all the books and movies describe it as. The boy is strangely calm, like he’s accepting his fate or something dumb like that, not sobbing and throwing things across the room. Or maybe that’s just what girls do. He isn't actually sure.

Hm.

Peter leans his head back and groans. Well, what now? He just broke up with his first girlfriend, and now feels… weird. He feels empty, kind of sore, in a really messed up internal way. Perhaps he’s sad. Perhaps he’s furious. Peter himself doesn't exactly know. He doesn't know shit, apparently. Why doesn't he ever know things like this?

He already misses Gwen, which is a problem, because she’s only just left, and he has the entire rest of his life to wait for her to never come back.

This is depressing, isn't it? Maybe that’s the point of breakup? Is Peter finally getting it right? No? Alright.

He stays up on the ceiling for a while longer, beginning to drift off to sleep for the second time today. He really is tired, for some reason, and the burns on his arms sting under their bandages.

Peter falls into a really really light sleep…

… and is awoken ten minutes later by both the thump of something hitting the roof and Ren barking suddenly. He is so surprised by both of these things that he yelps and falls off the ceiling with an extremely loud thump of his own.

Ow.

“Ow,” Peter mutters annoyedly, casting a glance upwards accusingly. What had that been? He rubs the back of his neck, sitting up just as a voice calls out, “Damn. That sounded bad. You okay?”

Ren barks again. Peter stiffens. MY SPIDEY SENSE IS TINGLING.

“He-lo? Anyone home?” A familiar face appears upside down in Peter’s window and a few knuckles knock on the glass. “Oh. There you are!”

Peter shoots up in shock, and stumbles backwards. His arm flies out sideways, groping for the hoodie he knows is slung over his chair. He shoves it on frantically; he cannot let anyone see these burns, especially Deadpool himself, as he’ll most likely make the connection as to why they’re there.

“Jesus Christ,” he gets out. Wade Wilson smiles and waves.

“Open up, baby boy!” he yells through the pane of glass that separates him and Peter, knocking again. “Let ol’ Uncle DPooly inside, wouldja? It’s fucking hot as balls out here.”

Peter does not know which part of this sentence is the most offensive: Wade’s nickname for him, Wade’s nickname for himself, the fact that he’s apparently Peter’s uncle now, the fact that he wants to get inside, or the fact that he literally just said “fucking hot as balls”. All five of these things make Peter feel very much like he wants to punch a hole through his wall and Spiderman away into the sunset.

“Go away,” he calls back, waving at Wade irritably.

Deadpool pouts pathetically, then grins at Ren, who’s barking is getting kind of annoying at this point. “Hey, girl! Remember me? I’m your uncle DPooly!”

“You’re not my brother, or my uncle, or her uncle. Get the hell out of here!”

“Peter?” Steve’s voice floats up the stairs. “Is everything alright up there?” Peter stiffens and glances backwards. He can’t let either of his dads see that he’s still communicating with Wade Wilson.

“Y-yeah! Everything’s fine, Pops! Why don’t you… go hang out with Dad?”

Peter desperately hopes that Wade cannot hear Steve through the window, because his father has said his name.

“Parker,” the man whines. Apparently not. “Lemme in…”

“No! Go away!” Peter makes sure to lower his voice a bit, so no one except JARVIS (who will hopefully not tattle) can hear.

“Please?” Wade folds his hands together and pouts, staring at Peter pleadingly, looking utterly pathetic though humongously obnoxious at the same time. “Please please please? Please? Please?”

Peter gapes, continuously waving him away. He does not go away, however. Why won’t he? Why can’t he? Gwen left perfectly fine, without hesitation. Why can’t Wade? Why is it that the girl Peter wants to keep leaves so readily and the man he really wants to throw into the ocean sticks to him without problem?

“We’re not friends, Wade!” he hisses, moving closer, all the while shushing Ren and her noise, which is probably worrying Steve. “Leave! Now’s not the time.”

“Why not? Now’s always the time, sweetie!”

“Not in the mood, Wade.”

“Aw. What happened?”

“Stop yelling!”

“Then let me in!”

Peter really isn’t in the mood, and it shows clearly on his face. Apparently Deadpool can see this (probably not though) and cocks his head.

“What happened?”

“Why would I tell you? Go away.”  
  
“Ouch. My poor old heart.”

“You’ve said that before. Don’t overuse it. Please, Wade. Go away.”

Wade looks genuinely hurt for a second, which startles Peter because one, the guy’s wearing a damn mask, and two, Deadpool himself doesn't usually get hurt, emotionally or physically, and now that he is… Peter feels bad.

Especially in his current (heartbroken?) state.

Ren growls. Peter scratches behind her ears. She’s still a puppy, but already is protective, which Peter doesn't exactly need but it’s useful. Especially against sneaky creeps like Deadpool who can get by without setting off Spidey-sense or making sound that Peter can turn around to.

He admires that, admittedly.  
  
Peter steps forward and unlocks the window, pushing it open.

Wade smiles gratefully, and slips in, doing some elaborate flip over Peter’s desk and onto the carpeted floor besides the retriever, who begins to viciously sniff the man; said man pets her affectionately.

“Hey, girl,” he coos as Peter steps around the two to shut his bedroom door, praying that JARVIS values friendships and heartbreak and superhero bonding and… and whatever the else the hell this is.

“What do you want?” he demands, standing over Wade menacingly. “Whatever it is, do it quick. You're not allowed to be here.”

“Aw, did your daddies forbid me from seeing you? How romantic!” Wade springs to his feet and beams, plopping himself onto Peter’s bed comfortably. “Damn, you always have the best furniture, don’tcha? Hella more comfy than my shit.”

Peter glares. “Deadpool. Why. Are. You. Here.”

“Harsh, dude. Real harsh. Is there anything wrong with wanting to say a simple hello? I was bored, in the neighborhood… thought I’d stop by!”

“Dammit, Wade. My dads’ll kill me if they see you here.”

“But they won’t kill _me?”_

  
“Oh, no, of course not.” Peter scowls. “They’ll lock you up in the basement and torture you until you beg for mercy and cry.”

Wade raises an eyebrow. “Harsh.”

“You said that already.”

“This whole family is harsh.”

“Hm.”

There is a silence in which Ren decides Wade is not a bad guy (which he is, technically) and settles down on Peter’s bedroom floor.

“You’re acting different,” Wade says.

Peter looks up. “Am I?” he asks, bitterness clear even to himself in his voice; dammit, Gwen. Now look what you did. “Oh.”

“Yeah… what happened?” Deadpool pats the spot on the bed next to him. “Come sit. Talk to me, kid.”

Peter doesn't move. “You don’t seem like the counseling type, to be honest.”

He does not voice this, but he desperately needs someone to talk to. Not just aboot Gwen and her disappearance, but aboot… life in general. Peter has no friends. He spends his time beating up muggers in Los Angeles. He’s not like normal kids; he doesn't hang out with other people his age, go to pool parties, shopping, to the beach to simply hang out… no. Peter does none of these things. He is Spiderman, and when he’s not, he’s locked away in his room doing his school’s summer reading assignments.

It’s sad, really.

It’s so sad, actually, that Peter goes over and sits next to Wade. Not even stiffly. He just sits, like a normal person. This seems to shock both Wade himself and Ren.

“Whoa,” the former breathes. “You willingly listened to me for once!”

“Shut up, Wade. I sat with you. Big deal.”

“Get me orange juice?”

“Stop pushing it, or I’m getting up.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Care to tell me why you’re acting all… serious? You usually stutter. And act awkward. No offense. Those’re just my observations.”

Peter looks at the man doubtfully, then sighs loudly. “Goddammit, Wade.”

“What?”

“Stop making me feel bad for you.”

“Hey. That’s not very nice. Nothing’s wrong with me. We’re talking aboot you. What’s wrong with you?”

  
“Nothing is wrong with me!” This comes out louder than Peter means for it to, startling Deadpool slightly, making him cock his head and blink confusedly.

“Jesus Christ, Parker. Chill, wouldja? I’m sorry. Was it me? Randomly showing up in your window? Is that creepy? Should I stop doing that?” He pauses, then mutters, “Shut up,” to himself. Peter doesn't comment.

“No, it wasn’t you,” he says quietly, running a hand down his face. “But please don’t do the window thing. It is kinda weird, and furthermore, if my dads found out, we’d both be murdered.”

“I thought I’d be tortured?”

“Yeah, whatever I said.”

“Whatever you said.”

“Yup.” This is turning out to be the most awkward conversation ever, Peter decides, and shuts up for the time being. The two sit together in companionable silence for a few more moments, waiting for the other to speak up. Wade, Peter thinks, is being uncharacteristically nice today. He wonders if perhaps he is acting pitiful. He doesn't _want_ to. Isn't it a girls’ thing, crying over heartbreak? That’s not a thing men like himself do. Then why is he (he is not literally crying, of course, but he does feel like it)? It’s pathetic… Maybe Wade can tell? Maybe not? Peter definitely hopes not.

“Parker.”

“Hm?” Peter does not like answering to this name, but no way in hell is he telling him his real one, and besides, it’s better than “baby boy” or “sweetcheeks” or whatever else Wade likes to use.

“You’re acting really fucking weird. Something happened.”

Yeah, I know, the boy thinks, frowning and glancing away. His shoulder is patted kindly.

“What is it? I won’t tell.” Pause. “Not like I have anyone to tell.” Another pause. “Your dads getting divorced?”

“No!” is the response, and the hand is removed from Peter’s shoulder forcefully. “No. Shut up, Wade.”

“Ok, fine. I’m going to keep guessing, though, until you tell me. Did your fish die?”

“No, Wade.”

“You discovered your real-life parents?”

“My real-life parents are dead.”

“Oh. Oops. Sorry? Is it too late to say that?”

“No. It’s ok. I never knew them.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“Let’s.”

“You failed that social studies test that I tried to help you with. Is that it? It must be it.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “What.”

“Don’t you remember? That day ninjas decided to bomb your school but was stopped by yours truly? I was talking to you through the window!”

“Oh. Of course that was you.” Peter had always known it was, though it had never been confirmed by Wade himself. “And no. I didn’t fail it because it wasn't graded. I took it again, and actually studied.”

“Oh, good. Good job, kid. You’re a studious one, eh? What’d you get?”

“I… I don’t know! You expect me to remember?”

“Sure! Why not?”

“I-it… it was a lot of months ago, Wade. I’ve had a lot of social studies tests between now and then. And it’s summer now, anyway!”

“You take a lot of social tests? That sucks.” 

  
“Why are we even talking aboot this?”

“Because Noah’s tired and doesn't want to write anymore. Let’s continue this tomorrow morning.”

Peter furrows his brows. “…huh?”

Wade pauses, then beams. “Ok! It’s tomorrow now!” He continues speaking before the boy can question this strange outburst, saying, “Do I have to keep guessing or are you going to tell me what the hell’s wrong already?”

Peter, honestly, feels stupid. Why is his breaking up with Gwen such a big deal anyway? Why is he bothering hiding it from people? Teenagers break up all the time; it’s not like Peter and Gwen are special or anything.

He sighs loudly. “My girlfriend broke up with me.”

Wade sighs in return. “Aw, jeez, dude. I’m sorry. Was she the pretty blonde one that saw me assaulting you in the women’s bathroom?” Peter cringes at the memory.

“Um, yeah. That’s her.”

“She dumped you? Or was it the other way around? Because that’s a totally different case if so.”

Peter swallows. He isn't even quite sure what this case is… did Gwen dump him? It wasn't exactly like that… sort of…

“I, uh,” he says. “I… n-no, she… She didn’t dump me… she moved. And broke up with me. Today.”

“Ooh,” Wade winces. “Ouch. Not even gonna try for the long-distance relationship?”

Shrug. “I… I guess not.” Peter glances at the man besides him, appreciating the sympathy. “H-have… Have you been dumped before?” He really does not know why asks this, but he already has and is already regretting it. He doesn't care, or… care. Why is he asking, then?

Deadpool snickers. “Oh, hell, Parker. More than you’d ever expect.”

Peter is not sure whether to be surprised or not. He isn't exactly sure whether, either, if he thinks Wade Wilson is the sort of guy who dumps others or gets dumped. It’s one or the other, obviously, but…

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry?”

“Eh, it’s ok,” Wade scoffs. “I’ve got the one-night stand thing going on, ya know?” He trails off. “They never want to stay. Fucking bullshit, amirite? It’s like, why the hell did you sleep with me if you’re just going to be all… all… what’s the word…?”

“Bitchy?” Peter tentatively suggests.

“Yes. Thank you. Why the hell did you sleep with me if you're going to be all bitchy aboot it in the morning? Yes, I am clean! Yes, I used a condom! Were you really that drunk not to notice? Well, I’m sorry, honey, if you didn't mean it. Yeah, yeah, there you go, out the door. Bye.”

Peter blinks. “Uh…” Wade sounds kind of angry, and the boy isn't sure how to react to this. “Sorry?” he tries again.

“Stop apologizing, would you?!”

“S-sor… I mean…-“

Deadpool runs a hand down his face. “Nah, kid, stop it. I’m sorry. See, look, there I go too.” He smirks, and falls backwards onto the bed. Peter follows suit. “We’re so fucking gay, discussing our relationship problems.”

“No we’re not,” Peter protests. “It’s perfectly normal. We’re just… unorthodox. Yeah. Unorthodox.”

“Nonconformist!”

“Schismatic?”

“What does that even mean. Uh… rebellious!”

“Maverick…”  
  
“Dammit, Parker. I can’t keep up with your… your… extensive vocabulary. Ok, lemme think. Is unnormal a word?”

“N-no, but… heretical is.”

“Ok. Heretical!”

“Heterodox.”

“Unusual.”

Peter turns his head on the bedsheets to face Wade. “Are we really doing this?”

“What, playing vocabulary-battle or discussing relationship problems?”

“…both.” It strikes the boy as very strange, but he does not much mind. It gives him something besides Gwen to think aboot.

“Because it’s…” Wade coughs dramatically. “… _eccentric.”_

Peter is impressed. “Yeah. Very idiosyncratic.”

“Oh, it’s on, you _peculiar_ little bitch.”

“I’m not a bitch. You’re the harridan here.”

“Oh yeah? And you're the… she-devil?”

“Termagant!”

“How dare you, WITCH!”

_“Vixen!”_

Wade pouts. “This isn't fair. You know shitload more big words than me. What does harridan even mean?”

Peter smiles softly. “Like an annoying old woman or something.”

“Jeez. I’m not that old.”

“I know. You’re…” He almost says thirty-five, then remembers the recent conversation between him, Wade, and Peter’s parents. “… thirty-six?”

“Yup! Glad you care enough to remember.”

The two lie in silence for a bit, Peter relishing it. He admittedly enjoys Deadpool’s company, no matter how obnoxious he can be sometimes. Like now. But still! Yeah, sure, Peter can see why women don't want to stay with him, but… he’s sort of pleasant, once you get used to him; gives you something to focus on if you need to not focus on something else.

In this case, Gwen Stacy.

Peter is thinking of her now, and this dampens his mood.

“What is it? You thinking aboot her?”

The boy glances over sharply. “Huh?”

“Your face. It was doing that serious-sad-angry thing again. I’m assuming it’s the girl?”

“Uh, yeah. Can we… not talk about it? I… I’m…”

“Heartbroken? Depressed? Feeling suicidal?”

Peter stiffens. “No, Wade. I’m fine. Just kind of… mellow. Don’t you? When the women leave you? You don’t feel heartbroken or whatever. That’s a girls’ thing.”

Wade shrugs. “I usually feel angry, but to each his own, eh?” He chuckles. “Which do we sound more of right now: girly, or emo?”

Peter laughs along. “Probably emo. I’d like to keep my title as a man, thanks very much.”

“As long as you've still got your balls, you still are. Don’t worry, sweetums. Girls aren't a thing you should worry over. You'll get more, they’ll leave. Lather, rinse, repeat. I mean, normal people finally settle down at some point, like you. You’ll find THE ONE and love her a lot and marry her and get children…”

“Wade, are you ok?”

He sounds angry again. It’s uncharacteristic. It’s bothering Peter. Perhaps Wade’s just that bad with the opposite gender?

“I’m _fine_ , kid. Stop worrying.”

“Well,” Peter tries, attempting to be supportive and reassuring (this isn't exactly his forte, though), “I’m sure you’ll find your own someday.” Wade gives him a look.

“Yeah, whatever you say, sweetcheeks.”  
  
“Don’t _call_ me that.”

“Hehe.” Wade snickers under his breath. “Yeah, I know. Isn't he?”

Peter looks over. “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

They lie together for a few minutes longer, looking at the star charts pinned up to Peter’s ceiling. The boy finds himself staring intently at Boötes.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Wade exhales loudly. “Hm?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Peter rolls his eyes. He really is thankful, though, even if Wade doesn’t want to hear why. The guy’s been the closest thing Peter has to a friend, for both him and Spiderman, recently; he really needs more of those. He sacrifices himself for both, which astounds Peter (even if Wade does come back, somehow) because he does not exactly know anyone who would do that except maybe his parents (Steve more likely than Tony, of course), and they hardly count in terms of friends. They’re family. They have to love Peter.

Not that Wade does. Peter kind of wants him to, though, in a friendly way. That way, the boy knows he’s got someone on his side. Though, considering the man’s occupation, if the offer was high enough, Deadpool’d probably kill Peter/Spiderman without even fluttering an eyelash.

This is why Peter keeps on his toes when he’s around.

Just then, Wade pushes himself upwards, off the bed, and to his feet, and for one disappointing second, Peter thinks he’s leaving. This immediately changes when the guy begins walking over to the stereo he’s spotted across the room, and Spidey-sense goes off.

“What… are you doing?” he asks suspiciously, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Wade glances over his shoulder, a smirk clear through on his masked face.

“We were getting too mushy for my liking,” he answers, breathily, taking Peter’s lone iPod from his desk and plugging the device into its place on the stereo. “Thought I’d louden things up a bit.”  
  
Oh. So he wants to play music. That’s… fine, Peter supposes.

The tingling throughout his scalp tells him otherwise, however.

“Wade,” he warns. “Wade, stop.”

“Aw, why? I’m just playing something. Is that illegal?” Peter sees the man scrolling through his extensive playlist. “Aw, fuck it. I’m pushing shuffle, alright?”

Peter stiffens. “S-sure.” If anything embarrassing comes up, he supposes, he’ll just skip it.

Out Ta Get Me by Guns ’n’ Roses begins to play.  
  
“Holy shit,” Wade says. “This was my fucking jam back when it came out.”

“Good for you,” Peter mumbles as Axl Rose sings loudly into the microphone. “I’m glad you like it.” Wade carries out a series of really bad dance moves, keeping eye contact with Peter the entire time; the boy cannot resist a snort. Deadpool beams and continues, beckoning for the opposite kid to join him.

“No,” Peter giggles (manlyily. Of course). "Oh, hell no. I don’t dance.”

“Aw,” Wade coos. “You sound like a girl just asked to dance at a fucking party or something. This is just a friendly (manly) offer to test our… manliness.”

“You sound like a gay guy trying to be straight.” Peter continues laughing at Wade’s absolutely stupid-looking movements. “Stop it.”

“You know you like it, buttercup. Wanna see me do a split?”

“Not really, no.”

  
“Don’t be so mean to me!”

Peter does not answer, only makes eye contact with Wade again; they both burst out laughing. Axl Rose tells them indignantly that he’s “fucking innocent”. For some reason this fuels Peter’s giddiness to even higher levels, and he rolls backwards on his bed, clutching his stomach from giggles.

“Jesus Christ, Parker, you really know how to laugh!” Wade does a really dramatic spin as the song ends. There is a slight pause as the iPod switches tracks, and some hillbilly-sounding country song begins to play. “Whoa. What in the actual shit is this?”

Peter flushes, and resists the urge to web the entire sound system over to where he is. “Oh, uh. Just skip this one if you don't like it?”

Two voices that blend very well together (one male, one female) begin singing the mentioned song; Wade looks amused.

“Hey, they sound epic. Who are they?”

Should he tell him?

  
“Harris. Emmylou Harris,” Peter relents. “And Mark Knopfler. They’re… partners.”

“They’re adorable,” Wade repeats, and resumes his lame dancing, this time lifting Ren’s front paws from where she stands in front of him and ballroom-styling around the room. “Hehe. You listen to country music!”

“Shut up. Country music’s badass and you know it.”

This goes on for a few songs in which Peter watches, laughs, and takes pictures with one of his better cameras (Wade poses obnoxiously) and Wade dances, jumps around, and sings along. He, apparently, can speak Japanese/German/Spanish/whatever the hell else, and impresses Peter greatly with his intense sing-alongs of various foreign songs.

And then comes the moment of truth.

Pain by Three Days Grace begins playing.

 _‘Pain, without love_  
Pain, can’t get enough  
Pain, like it rough  
‘Cuz I’d rather have pain than nothing at all…’

“HOLY SHIT,” says Wade way louder than necessary, marching his way over to where Peter is still seated, drawing his swords and guns and sai knives and dumping them all besides the boy, doing a series of stretches, then cracks his knuckles and grabs onto the boy’s arm. “Alright, kid. Playtime’s over. This is the _real fucking deal_. Get up.”

“Wh-what?” Peter asks as he allows Wade to yank him off the bed and into the middle of the room. “What are you-“

“Jesus Christ. Don’t you see? This song is our fucking… _song_. We listened to it in the woods together!”

Peter vaguely remembers this. “Y-yeah, but…”

“And we like pain. You were dumped, I’m frequently dumped… it all makes sense. We should listen to _Pain_ and relish the feeling together.”

“And you called _me_ emo…”

“Hehe. Now we can both be! It’ll be great. Let’s go, Parker. Dance with me.”

“This isn’t… we’re not… this song isn’t…”

 _‘You’re sick of feeling numb_  
_You’re not the only one_  
_I’ll take you by the hand_  
_And show you a world you can understand_  
_This life is filled with hurt_  
_When happiness doesn't work_  
_Trust me and take my hand_  
_When the lights go out you’ll understand…’_

The chorus kicks in and Wade simply explodes into a nuclear cloud of insanely crappy dance moves, which Peter stares at blankly and awkwardly backs up.

“C’mon, dollface. Let’s have a dance-off! To this song. It’ll be beautiful. And painful. Hehe. See what I did there?” Wade gets up in Peter’s face, waving his arms around; Peter responds with a shove backwards. “There you go!” the man chirps. “Now turn that into dancing!”

  
_‘Pain, without love  
Pain, can’t get enough…’_

Well, if Wade's doing it too...

Peter summons an air guitar from the void and  begins to play it passive aggressively, banging his head to the beat and stifling guffaws. Wade doesn’t bother, and laughs outright, taking his own drums and slamming on them violently, nodding at his band member approvingly. The two go at this until the second verse starts up; now they face each other, circling and making awkward gorilla-like movements.

Peter makes some sort of roaring noise.

Wade makes a higher-pitched version of said roaring noise. Both beings giggle.

Ren barks.

 _‘Anger and agony are better than misery_  
Trust me I’ve got a plan  
When the lights go off you'll understand…’  
  
Peter, knowing the words, sings along loudly and badly, kicking one leg into the air and spinning, then making a wave-like movement with his arms.

Wade shakes his hips in a few circles, points to the sky and flings that finger around, then falls into an admittedly impressive split.

“Suck on that, loser.”

Peter resists the urge to bust out a few Spiderman moves and settles on performing multiple back handsprings around Deadpool; once behind him, Peter vaults himself over the man, front-flipping so that he lands on the floor dramatically. 

Wade claps.

The part of the song where Adam Gontier sings sadly and slowly slithers down to the floor on his back begins to emit from the speakers, so Peter does just this, singing into an air microphone and writhing on his carpet.

Ren looks slightly worried, comes over, and licks her owner’s face. This sends the owner into a fit of chuckles; Wade dances above Peter, smirking.

“Damn, kid, you a gymnast?”

“Maybe.”

“PAIN, WITHOUT LOVE, PAIN, CAN’T GET ENOUGH, PAIN, LIKE IT ROUGH!” the man howls.

“You’re so _bad,”_ Peter gets out amusedly, springing to his feet with one swift movement. Wade grabs him and spins him around.

“Right back at you, buddy.” The song ends with a loud crash of a cymbal; Deadpool uses this note to elaborately dip Peter almost down to the floor, almost like a backbend. Peter can take it. He’s fucking Spiderman, for Pete’s sake. Hehe. Pete.

Both males are chuckling too hard to even speak. Peter is dropped to his carpet; Wade collapses heavily besides him, reaching over to grab his weapons from Peter’s bed and sheath/holster them.

“Fucking hell,” Deadpool gets out eventually. Peter agrees with his laughter. “We’re so fucking _gay.”_

“Stop calling us that,” Peter argues. “Dancing together is totally manly. We’re just getting over our lost girlfriends.” As he says this, Gwen mournfully passes through his mind.

“Yeah. Totally.” Wade snickers. He listens to the new song playing out throughout the room, and opens his mouth to say something else. Just then, the door bursts open and in charges a very angry Tony Stark.

Deadpool vanishes in a flash of pale blue light.

“PETER,” says the Italian man now standing over his son. “Where the hell…?! What the _hell…?!”_

Music blares. Peter stands up guiltily, a dopey grin still plastered on his face, and makes his way over its source, shutting it off.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Where is he?”

Oops. Maybe JARVIS _had_ blabbed.

“Wh-where’s who?” Peter asks innocently, blinking and looking around. His window is still open, and a cool draft blows inside. Tony marches over to it and slams it shut firmly, looking both ways out of it briefly.

“Fucking Wilson. He was just here.”

Peter cocks his head. “No… he wasn’t…” As mentioned, Peter Stark isn't exactly the best liar, and Tony knows this; he glares into his son’s very soul. He’s got a visor propped up on his head again, and oily grease smears all over his face and lower arms. A filthy rag is in one hand, and the man clutches it so that his knuckles turn white.

“Pete… Parker. Don’t you fucking lie to me.”

Peter cringes at the curse. Where the hell is Steve?!

Tony seems to read his thoughts, because he says sharply, “Your Pops’ getting groceries. He’s not saving you this time. Where the hell is he?!”

“‘He’? Who’s … he…?”

“Don’t play dumb! JARVIS, where is he?”

_“He’s gone, sir.”_

“Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. He couldn't have left so quickly.”

Peter feels like crumpling into a little ball and dying.

_“Well, he has. He’s gone, not on the property either.”_

“Dad. Deadpool wasn't here. Really. Pops told me to stay away from him, so that's what I'm doing.”

Tony is not convinced, but leaves, probably because he doesn't care much now that JARVIS has said that he is gone, and because he wants to get back to his precious tinkering or whatever the hell Tony Stark does in the basement. He does send Peter a warning glare before exiting, though. 

"You'd _better_ not be lying." 

The second the door closes Peter bursts into a fit of quiet laughter. He falls into his desk chair and covers his face with both hands.

Fuckin’ Wade. Wade fucking Wilson. Wade Wilson.

It is not until later that Peter notices that he has missed a call from Gwen and begins to feel bad all over again.

He does not call her back, however.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL UM THIS CHAP MIGHT'VE BEEN WRITTEN AWKWARDLY BUT IT SURE WAS FUN. 
> 
> Y'ALL SHOULD GO LISTEN TO "PAIN" BY THREE DAYS GRACE BECAUSE IT RETURNS LATER IN THE STORY MAYBE LIKE A THOUSAND CHAPTERS LATER NYEH HEH HEH
> 
> Thank the fucking Lord I decided to edit this before shamelessly posting. There were sO MANY CRINGY PARTS YOU WOULDN'T EVEN KNOW. It took me forever, though, lol. I aLso feel like I'm losing everyone's voices... >.


	18. the Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Peter's feeling down, and quite reasonably figures that a nice stroll along the beach should help.
> 
> A playful splash-fight with Wade Wilson should make it even better.

The eighteenth time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on August 26, the day Spiderman decides to go play out on the cliffs of Malibu Point in memory of Gwen.

* * *

 

It is late evening; maybe around seven or eight or so. The red-and-blue figure is up on the cliff, looking out over the ocean longingly. Looking this way, out at the Pacific Ocean, Peter knows that Gwen is directly behind him, on the other side of the country. They have not spoken yet (Peter has not called back yet, and she hasn't tried again), and the boy desperately debates whether he should. Should he? Would that be stupid?

Probably.

He groans, and shifts his position, knees jutting out into the air and fingertips placed elegantly between, on the rocky surface below him.

“Dammit,” he mutters. The beach far down that way is empty; maybe he’ll take a walk down there. Peter does not even know why he has decided to adorn the suit today, right now (he is not even fighting crime, so there really is no point), but he has, and feels comfortable in it. And that’s all that matters, to him.

He always feels more comfortable in the suit.

It is August 26, as mentioned, and is nearing the beginning of school. The boy has already received his schedule and supply list and such; he also has already memorized the former and collected all of the things on the latter. It’s quite sad, really.

Peter does not want to go back to school. Now that he does not have Gwen, kids like Flash Thompson’ll be more eager and willing to make jabs at him (and possibly beat him up). And the worst part is that Peter will have to take it, even though he could just as easily (perhaps even more so) beat them up back, and leave them crying on the tiles below. Peter could do a lot of bad things to the bullies, but he doesn’t. He can’t. And why? Because then everyone would know that he was Spiderman, or, at the very least, someone that was not Peter Parker Rogers-Stark.

“Dammit,” he repeats, louder. His dads are out, somewhere doing their Stony things… ever since the other day, Tony’s been kind of miffed at his son for being able to hide Deadpool so efficiently. The thing is Peter didn’t. He’d vanished, quite literally. Peter can seen him do that a few times before in the past, and had always wondered what it was. Was one of Deadpool’s superpowers teleportation, perhaps?

That is a cool superpower, in Peter’s opinion. He’d never trade away his current ones, though. Never in a million years. Not even for something like teleportation.

The boy sighs and begins to carefully scale the side of the cliff he is at the top of. The setting sun glints on the glass-like surface of the ocean’s gentle waves, casting a pinkish-orange-like glow over the entire sky and area, giving the isolated part of this beach a pleasant, tranquil atmosphere.

Peter quite likes it.

Rock after rock, crevice after crevice, he makes his way down to the sand below. A few bits of cliff tumble out from his feet, startling the boy a bit; he does not worry or fear, however. He is Spiderman, and Spiderman has sticky fingers and toes and webs. Nothing to worry about.

He puts his right foot down first; it is promptly drenched by the tide, which decides to flow up the beach at this exact moment. Peter does not mind, though, and places his other foot down, getting it equally wet. Then he begins to walk, in the water.

Spandex is not an especially comfortable material to get wet in (well, it is, but taking it off is always a problem), but Peter lets himself be drenched anyway (like his right foot had been), walking farther into the water so he reaches his thighs. He continues on, along the beach, happily, making sure not to get his web shooters wet (that never ends well).

Peter, he thinks, really needs friends. Don’t friends walk with other friends on the beach, normally? Wasn't that a thing friends did?

“Gwen,” he says, under his breath, and begins to name every person in his life that can be considered his “friend”, or at least someone he knows well and can be friendly with. “Harry. Pops. Dad. The… rest of my family?”

Is that really it?

It can’t be. That’s… mostly his family. So basically all of Peter’s friends are that? That’s not good, is it?

“Well, and Wade,” he adds. Does Wade even count? He’s not a friend, exactly; more like a sort-of acquaintance. Was that a thing?

 _I need friends,_ the boy thinks, sadly, and looks around, kicking at the water as the sun begins to disappear slowly over the horizon. What time is it, anyway?

_Ok._

_Excluding family…_

“Gwen, Harry…” Not even Gwen. She’s left. She’s gone. She doesn’t… count. This in itself, as a thought, makes Peter feel bad. Why can’t she count? Why couldn’t have they tried, at least, a long-distance relationship?

She probably already has another boyfriend.

“Harry,” Peter mutters, “Wade. Harry, Wade…”

Are those, really, his only friends?! Really?

“You called?”

“WADE,” Peter states loudly, not bothering to turn around. “Wade, go away.”

  
“You said my name. Along with some other dude. Who’s Harry? Is he your boyfriend? Are you naming all your superhero love interests?”

Dammit.

_Sorry, Harry._

Hopefully Deadpool doesn't remember things like this. If Harry’s name (as common as it is) is known to him, and he knows Harry is a friend of Spiderman, that could be putting him in potential danger. And Peter doesn't want that. Why would he? Harry, apparently, is one out of his only two friends. Not even. More like only, considering Wade… isn’t.

“Why are you here?” Peter demands, irritably. He wanted to be alone today. He wanted to walk alone today. Peacefully. Quietly. Not… with anyone. Well, maybe a friend like Harry or Gwen, two people who know what the word silence means. “Don’t you leave in, what, LA or something? This is Malibu. Are you confused, Deadpool? Do you need directions?” All of this is said sarcastically.

“Ow. Harsh. And really, I should be asking the same of you.”

“Yeah, well, whenever I decide to come out here, you do too. It’s annoying. Go away. Stop following me.”

“Aw, stop flattering yourself! I came to see my friend Parker, not you. Just he wasn’t home, so I came down here and heard you talking.”

It annoys Peter greatly that Deadpool can get through Spidey-sense without much problem at all. And when it does go off when he’s around, it’s always a split-second or so before the guy strikes. It’s frustrating. Very much so.

“You see that giant white house up on that cliff? That’s his. Fucking impressive, eh? He’s rich.” Wade grabs Spiderman’s shoulder and points to the mansion they are walking away from. Spiderman shakes him off.

“Mm-hm. Very impressive.” Peter rolls his eyes. “Your friend Parker must be quite the character.”

“Oh, he is! You should meet him sometime.”

“Ok. Can you leave now?”

  
“Aw, sweetcheeks, don't treat your one true love so. It’s mean!”

It, also, annoys Peter greatly that Deadpool calls both Spiderman and “Parker” the nickname “sweetcheeks”. And anything else that he’s made up. He talks to the two like they are the same person (which they are, but Wade does not know that, of course).

“Don’t you have someone else to go bother?” Spiderman snaps, looking at the other man. “Someone else to call sweetcheeks?”  
  
“Well, I mean, I also call Parker sweetcheeks, but his cheeks aren't nearly as sweet as yours. Take that as a compliment. Though, I’ve never actually seen him in spandex, so…”

“Jesus,” Peter says. “Shut up.”

“What? Ok, look, I’ll stop calling him sweetcheeks. Just for you! I’ll call him baby boy. How’s that? That’s different, right? Because he is one. He’s so cute, did you know? So small and naive and smart and a bad dancer and kind of gay…”

Peter, needless to say, is extremely offended.

“… and short (like you!) and skinny and a great photographer (have you seen the pictures on his walls?) and unpopular and bullied and feisty and cheerful and stuttery (also like you sometimes) and wears glasses and…-”

“Shut up!!!” Spiderman explodes, turning to glare at DeadfuckingPool, because he feels extremely disrespected and insulted and whatever else because is this how Wade views him?! This is horrible! Forget what he said, WADE WILSON is not Peter Stark’s friend. Not even his acquaintance! Even if he is younger and shorter and skinnier and less smooth than Wade, that’s no reason for Wade himself to go around telling people like Spiderman about this, and saying all these condescending things! Peter doesn't care how stupid and young it sounds, but he demands respect as much as anyone else. “Just SHUT UP, would you? Do you ever?! No wonder no one hangs out with you!”

He isn't sure why he’s in such a bad mood but he is and there’s nothing Wade can go about it.

Wade doesn't seem to care much though.

“Aw,” he says instead. “Are you jealous? That’s adorable! It’s ok, though, Spidey! I’ll always be your friend, no matter how much I like Parker. He’s a great normal friend, but you’ll always be my number one Superbro! Better than anyone else, that’s for sure. You're the nicest a superdude’s ever been to me.”

Peter is not amused or impressed. “Wade.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“You _are_ jealous!” Wade throws an arm around a very grumpy Spiderman’s shoulders. “Isn’t it funny, though? How we keep running into each other?”

“No. It’s just kind of creepy.”

_If only you knew you were talking to the same kid that is that cute and small and naive and whatever the hell else you said about him._

“Nah, don’t be that guy.”

“You know I am ‘that guy’. So shut up. It’s creepy. Deal with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, sweetcheeks.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sweetcheeks, sweetcheeks, sweetcheeks!” Deadpool reaches down from Peter’s shoulders to pat his ass a few times before the boy turns and punches at his face; the blow is caught by one firm hand. “Ah ah ah! I’ve been punched at too many times by Parker. The guy just does love groping at me. Did I tell you he broke up with his girlfriend recently?”

Peter is astounded that anyone can be this bad at keeping secrets. Though that really wasn't one, still, it’s decent to not tell random other people about one’s personal life!

“Do you tell _everyone_ you come across about this poor guy’s personality and life?” Peter asks sourly, sending a glare at Wade before yanking his fist back, miffed that he’d been blocked.

“Nah. Only you.”

Peter certainly is glad he is Spiderman. He is still irritated, however, because what if he wasn’t? Then that’d be a completely different matter. A very _much_ completely different matter.

“Don’t. I, unlike you, respect his privacy. You should, you know. It’s decent. Nice. Considerate. If he really is your friend, he’s trusting that you won’t tell other people things like this.”

Wade looks a little taken aback. “I never took you for the inspirational type. That was a cute little speech right there!”

“No, it wasn’t. It was common sense being voiced to someone lacking it.”

“You’re so fucking tsundere, Spidey.”

“Thanks?”

“Tsundere isn’t good, for the little desperate ones like me! I just want a friend. Will you be my friend?”

“No. Not right now, anyway.” Spiderman casts a glance out to the darkening horizon, where the sun is slowly leaving him and revealing the moon and stars instead.

It reminds him of the sunset Wade had shown him back in the Canadian Rockies.

Because Wade is being silent, Peter assumes he has hurt his feelings or something, and turns back around to apologize; the man is gone.

Peter blinks.

Spidey-sense tingles.

A large palmful of water is suddenly dumped all over the boy’s head.

Said boy roars angrily and spins around, shoots webs at the offender, high-kicks him in the head, and backs up, now sopping wet. Luckily, the water hadn’t reached his wrists quite yet. He’s designed the things to be sort of waterproof, but they don't really stand a chance against the ocean and it’s great largeness.

“You _bitch!”_ he says. Wade is there, giggling and holding another splash of saltwater in his cupped hands, which comes flying Peter’s way.

Peter dodges it.

“You _bitch!”_ he repeats, not really knowing what else to say besides this.

“Come ‘ere, Spidey, and fight me like a man!”

“NO. Splash fights aren’t for men. We’re not five anymore!”

“Who says?” Deadpool approaches, and kicks water at Peter’s legs. He lets them splash onto his calves, glaring through his mask (which always looks kind of angry anyway), then, without hesitating, kicks back. “Hehe! There you go!”

“Shut up, Wade!”

Wade paws webs away from his face, backing up into deeper water as Peter approaches threateningly.

“Oh shit,” he says, moving left farther down the beach, giggling all the while. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit HELP ME GUYS SPIDERMAN’S GONNA KILL ME-“

Peter shoots a web that is dodged, and then the chase initiates.

Two people in red spandex race down the shores of Malibu, shouting and laughing and splashing and tripping every once in a while. Deadpool leaps over a rock; Spiderman follows suit. Deadpool zigzags into deeper ocean; Spiderman shoots webs at his back.

“Hey! No fair! No! That doesn’t count!”

Peter drags Wade towards him, getting the man close enough to shove a small wave’s worth of water onto his face and torso and neck. Wade squeals like a little girl, takes it, then promptly splashes back. This certain spot on the shore seems to go crazy; white sea foam flies around and becomes the color of the water… Cries of protest can be heard.

“Fucking hell! You’re a tiger, Spidey, stop!!” Wade again attempts to flee in a fit of giggles; he fails. Peter leaps forward, launches himself over the man’s head by his shoulders, performing a few frontflips just because. Then he splashes again.

“Show-off,” Deadpool snickers, shoving Peter backwards; the boy slams into a large rock. “Take this.” He seems to collect the entire ocean in his next attack (how the hell did they get this far in, Peter briefly wonders in the back of his mind) as he sends all the water he can (which is a lot) into Spiderman’s face; Spiderman takes it like a man, eyes and mouth shut tightly.

Spiderman does not move because he has a plan.

“Dude!” the boy sputters out, wiping at his face and trying to sound distressed as possible. “N-not cool! What the hell was that?” Wade snickers.

“Aw, what is it? Afraid of a little water, sweetcheeks?”

Peter smirks under the mask. “N-no, it’s not that, y-you… I… my web shooters…! Dammit… they can’t get wet, Wade. Or they break. It’s gonna take me weeks to fix these…” He inspects the small devices on his wrists carefully, holding them very close to his face to conceal snorts.

“Oh. Will it? Oops. Uh, sorry? Am I supposed to apologize?” Wade approaches, carefully. He looks down at Peter. “Are they that vulnerable? Because if they are, then seriously, dude, you need to modify them anyway.”

“Here,” Spiderman offers, holding out his arms. “Look at them.” Deadpool obliges, and takes the other being’s wrists in his hands, gazing down at the triangular things strapped to Peter.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly know, but they pretty ok to me…” It seems that at this moment when the last few words exit his mouth, Wade realizes what is about to happen, and it does, faster than he can react.  
  
Peter extends the pinkies, index fingers, and thumbs of both hands.

And we all know what happens next.

Wade shrieks, and stumbles backwards, pawing at his masked face. “AHH! NOOO!! I’VE BEEN FOOLED! WHAT IS THIS TRICKERY!?!?! DAMMIT THESE THINGS ARE FUCKING STRONG! SPIDEY NO SPIDEY WHYYYYY? I THOUGHT WE WERE-”

“We are _not_ friends!” Peter singsongs back, laughing loudly and amusedly; this is done in his normal, natural voice… oops. Luckily, Deadpool is too distracted by the webs in his eyes to notice. Spiderman quickly regains his voice, and leaps at Wade again.

Wade begins to run for his life.

And even farther down the beach they go, racing and shouting and splashing and whatever else, getting wet and sandy and dirty and tired, ducking behind rocks and giggling and dodging each other and Peter can hardly keep up anymore he’s so giddy, and why does Wade Wilson do that, that thing where he makes you forget about your current problems for a bit, no matter how big or small for no matter how long or short the time of your forgetfulness, but he does it somehow and that’s all that matters, at least to Peter because neither Gwen nor Harry nor his no-friends problem is on his mind.

Right now the only thing he can think of _CATCH WADE WILSON AND STICK HIM A FUCKING ROCK._

And so he does. Or, at least, tries to.

Deadpool leaps clear over another boulder on the beach and hides behind it; Peter runs around the side of it, spraying webs everywhere, not really caring what or who they hit. Wade yelps loudly and jumps out of the way.

Around and around that stupid rock they go, screaming and spraying and kicking saltwater and having the most fun either of them have had in a while. Peter grins to himself and stops running, turns, and spews webs at Wade the next time the guy comes around. Said guy protests loudly, gets kicked in the chest by two feet, and falls over backwards with a splash.

Peter lands back on his toes, nimbly, and laughs.

“No fair!” Deadpool cries out through a mouthful of water. “BLEHEHEH this stuff is fucking salty as all French fries. Yes, I know salt comes from the ocean!"

Peter does not even care when Wade launches into a whole argument with himself about salt and the Pacific Ocean and the Atlantic Ocean and Canada and India and Chinese salt businesses… he only giggles to himself and wonders what time it is.

Deadpool stands up, shakes himself off like a dog, then looks at Peter, who’s scalp promptly tingles.

He takes a few steps back.

“Whatever you're planning, it’s not going to work!” he calls as Wade approaches, grabs the boy by the waist, lifts him up, and hurls him into deeper water.

Peter lands with a harsh _sploosh_ noise as the cool ocean water engulfs him completely. When he finally fights his way to the surface, Deadpool is besides him, bobbing peacefully and giggling.

“Fuck you!” Spiderman says, and attempts to shoot a web at his opponent. The gadget kind of sputters and weakly ejects a small white string.

This sends Wade into hysterics.

Peter leaps at the mercenary and pushes him underwater.

The two initiate a very heated tackle beneath the surface of the ocean, in the dark murkiness of it all. It is hard to see, as it is nighttime, but they do not mind. They continue their scuffle, furiously and determinedly, under the water and moonlight and stars.

Then they get tired and decide to call it a tie.

The two lie, bobbing, on the surface, on their backs, squinting in the brightness of the glowing pale ball in the indigo-colored sky. Stars wink at them, and Peter remembers the Canadian Rockies. He remembers running down the mountain, lying in the grass, and the sunset. He remembers a lot of things that he is really too tired to think about now, and instead focuses on counting as many suns as he can that are in his vision at the moment.

It fails, obviously. You can’t count stars. Everyone knows that.

“Yeah, I know. He is,” Wade says. Peter looks over, keeping his legs steady so he still floats.

“Huh?”

“Yadda yadda yadda, it all means the same in the end. We all know that.”

“Wade.”

“But I don’t wanna!”

“Wade!”

“OH, SHUT UP, WOULD YOU?”

It’s at times like this that Peter thinks that Wade Wilson may or may not be slightly (if not completely) insane.

He doesn’t mind much, though. All the guy does is act it and talk to himself sometimes. It’s been happening more often as time goes on, the boy notes. He sighs to himself and lets the man go at it.

“Spidey?”

“Hm?” Spiderman exhales through his nose. The cold water lapping at his sides soothes him, and the boy thinks he might fall asleep. He knows he and Deadpool have drifted far from shore, and, quite frankly, does not give a crap.

Peter does not hear what Wade says next because he has fallen asleep, right there floating atop the ocean’s clear blue surface, which glints almost silver under the moon’s piercing rays.

-

When the boy awakens next he is lying, damp and crusty with dried salt, on the sand with the tide splashing softly at his feet. It is still very night, but when Peter sits up and looks around he can just make out a crudely-written message in the sand, obviously etched by someone with really bad handwriting and something pointy to carry it out with.

 _hey spidey,_ it says, cheerfully. _i didnt know where to put you so i left you here. hope you don't mind :) i was gonna stay but you know duty calls._

Peter groans, and flops back down on his back and stares at the sky. It is peaceful, quiet. He really wants to go to sleep, again, only on a bed next time.

Perhaps he should go do that now.

Peter stands, stretches, and glances down at himself; his suit is utterly gross. It’ll definitely need a wash… that can wait until tomorrow. He takes a step to leave, then stops when he spots the rest of the message, farther down. It is messier than the rest, slightly larger, and has more grains of sand piled around the letters.

It looks rushed, basically.

Peter hopes nothing bad has happened, reads the line of words, changes his mind, and puts his head in his hands.

_you look cute when you sleep -dpooly wilson_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter was cute. I really enjoyed writing it, anyway.
> 
> Also, um... I haven't updated in a long while? Sorry about that, haha.


End file.
